
: I.HrCcak. 



Tmm e m jtil b ©jf jejlil. 



Zondoiv.Tu&Usfietl by W. JojJKmfX'a '< 



THE 



LEGENDARY CABINET 



A COLLECTION OF 



BRITISH NATIONAL BALLADS, 

Kmimt antr i^tnSrmi ; 

FROM THE BEST AUTHORITIES. 

WITH NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 



*L BY y 

THE REV. J. D. TARRY, M.A. 

of st. peter's college, Cambridge. 



Call up him that left half-told 

The story of Cambuscau bold ; 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 

And who bad Canace to wife, 

That owned the virtuous ring and glass ; 

And of the wondrons horse of brass, 

On which the Tartar king did ride : 

And if aught else, great Bards beside. 

In sage and solemn tunes, bare sung. 

Of turneys, and of trophies hung ; 

Of forests, and enchantments drear, 

Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

MILTON.—// Penseroso 




LONDON : 
W. JOY, 66, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD. 



MDCCCXXIX. 




LONDON : 
PRINTED BY SAMUEL MANNING AND CO. 
LONDON-HOUSE YARD, ST. PAUL'S. 






*- 






- , 



PREFACE. 



In presenting this little Collection to the Public, 
the Editor begs leave, in the first instance, to refer 
to a previous announcement, of its being conducted, 
as far as the subject would admit, on a moral plan; 
or, at the least, with an exclusion of all articles of 
a directly exceptionable character. At the same time, 
it is hoped that no candid and intelligent Reader 
will mistake this for an unqualified panegyric on 
its contents; or subject that to a rigid assay, which 
was never intended for, and consequently never can 
come forth as, pure and unmixed metal. 

It is well known that this description of Poetry pos- 
sesses to many minds, and particularly to those of the 
young, peculiar charms ; it is also a fact which may 
easily be verified by observation, that in no previous 
selection of this kind, has any discretion been exercised 
as to the general character and effect of their miscel- 
laneous contents. To render, then, that which is 
popular, at least comparatively innocent, is surely an 



IV PREFACE. 

object which a superior mind might not consider be- 
neath its notice; — and in this view of the subject, the 
Editor has had the satisfaction of coinciding with the 
ideas of a high Ecclesiastical character, but whose 
name he is not at liberty here to mention. Such then 
has been his prevailing design in the production of 
this little Volume ; and whether or not he shall be 
pronounced by rigid, or lenient criticism, to have 
attained his object, he feels conscious that, to the 
best of his humble abilities, no care or pains have 
been spared in pursuing it. 

About one third of the Ballads in this Collection, 
have been taken from " Percy's Reliques," * and the 
rest from the most esteemed Authors and Compilers ; 
upwards of Forty Volumes having been consulted for 
that purpose. The spelling in the older Ballads has 
been modernized ; — a liberty which the scrupulous 
antiquary may well excuse, in consideration of the 
additional facility and pleasure which is thus afforded 
to the mass of general readers. "Whilst, at the same 
time, the original style and idiom has either been 
minutely preserved, or with such a trifling deviation 
as may fairly dispense with the necessity of apology. 

* This work was first published in the year 1765, in 3 vols. 8vo. 
Dr. Percy was, in 1778, appointed Dean of Carlisle ; and in 1782, 
Bishop of Dromore in Ireland, where he died in 1811, in his 83rd 
year ; — having nobly signalized himself in the employments of a more 
mature age, and an exalted station ; and leaving a character for piety, 
liberality, and benevolence, to which ample testimony was borne 
by all classes and descriptions of men. 



PREFACE. V 

The notes, which have been partly abridged from the 
Authors themselves, and otherwise gleaned from a 
few common works of History and Antiquities, are 
added for the convenience of such readers as are not 
particularly conversant with the subjects in question. 
To the " Esoteric" disciples of Antiquity, to whom the 
Editor himself is as one of the uninitiated, this will 
doubtless be a sufficient excuse ; and should there be 
any Readers to whom they are no objects of interest, 
they may, at all events, pass them over, without 
notice or interruption. 

It should not be here suppressed, that a charge of 
want of fidelity and undue alteration has been made 
against Dr. Percy, in his publication of these ancient 
pieces of Poetry. In the treatment, however, which 
they received at his hands, they have no farther been 
removed from originality, than Dr. Warton de- 
scribes all the Metrical Romances now to be. " They 
have been divested of their original form, polished in 
their styles, adorned with new incidents, successively 
modernized by repeated transcription and recitation, 
and retaining little more than the outlines of the 
original." And a small portion only of this process 
is attributable to Dr. Percy. He became possessed, 
from the gift of a friend, of a manuscript folio of 
ballads, the contents of which fortunately falling into 
the hands of a man whose taste and elegance have 
rarely been exceeded, they underwent a certain de- 
gree of polish, which yet did not impair their primary 
lineaments ; and the breaches made by time were so 



VI PREFACE. 

carefully repaired, that the additions are scarcely 
discernible. Had there been no envy or malice in 
the case, this would have been deemed an excellence; 
but the heart of his great opponent, Mr. Ritson, had 
in it unfortunately a very large proportion of these 
ingredients, to which were superadded much gross- 
ness and impiety. A few others of the Ancient 
Ballads remain unaltered, as they were written — from 
the era of Queen Elizabeth to about the middle of 
the seventeenth century. 

In order to make this a National Selection, all 
compositions (with one or two exceptions only) have 
been excluded in which the scene is laid in foreign 
countries ; and also translations from foreign lan- 
guages, which are now numerous, and some of them 
very beautiful. Nor was it possible to include in this 
volume half the beauties of British Ballads. Should, 
therefore, the Public receive with favour this one of 
the novitiatory efforts of a young Author, it may 
probably lead to the production of a Second Volume, 
from these united sources, as a sequel to the present, 
and of the same size and character. 

Jan. 1829. 



CONTENTS. 



1 Saxon Ode .... 


1 


2 Chevy Chase . 


10 


3 King Estmere 


24 


4 Sir Cauline . 


36 


5 Sir Aldingar .... 


51 


6 Marriage of Sir Gawaine . . . 


59 


7 King Arthur's Death 


72 


8 Sir Lancelot du Lake .... 


79 


' 9 Sir Patrick Spence .... 


84 


10 Robin Hood and Guy . 


87 


11 Robin Hood and the Curtal Friar 


98 


12 Robin Hood and the Fishermen 


104 


13 Robin Hood's Chase 


. 108 


14 King John and the Abbot . 


112 


15 Valentine and Ursine 


. 116 


16 St. George and the Dragon 


131 


17 Sir Andrew Barton 


• 141 


18 Princess Margaret .... 


154 


19 Johnny Armstrong 


. 155 


20 The Child of Elle . . 


159 


21 Hardyknute .... 


. 166 


22 Kempion .... 


178 


23 Willie of Kinmont 


. 182 


24 The Douglas' Tragedy 


189 


25 The Gay Goss-Hawk 


. 192 


26 Lady Elspat 


198 


27 Willie of Liddesdale 


. 200 


28 The Dens of Yarrow 


205 


29 George Barnwell .... 


. 208 


30 Passionate Shepherd 


222 


31 Christmas Song .... 


. 224 



CONTENTS. 



32 King's Ballad 

33 Song to the Lute 

34 Sonnets, by Lord Surrey 

35 On Music 

36 Red-Cross Knight 

37 Richard Plantagenet 

38 Hengist and Mey 

39 The Grave of King Arthur 

40 Athelgiva 

41 Hermit of Warkworth . 

42 Battle of Cuton-Moor 

43 Colin and Lucy 

44 The Hermit 

45 The Friar of Orders Gray 

46 The Spirit's Blasted Tree 

47 Lord Ullin's Daughter 

48 Lord Soulis 

49 The Gray Brother 

50 The Fatal Horse 

51 The Luck of Eden-Hall . 

52 The Prince of the Lake 

53 The Troubadour's Song . 

54 The Horn of Egremont Castle 

55 Fair Ellen 

56 The Inchcape Bell 

57 The Well of St. Keyne , 

58 May-day Pageant 

59 Hunting Song 

60 Legend of Charity 

61 St. John's Eve, in Palestine 

62 Ella 

63 The Boy of Egremond 

64 The Knight of Malta 
Supplementary Notes, &c. 



PAGE 

228 
239 
232 
234 
235 
249 
264 
271 
279 
292 
323 
336 
339 
346 
350 
357 
360 
371 
376 
382 
390 
394 



406 
409 
413 
414 
416 
419 
422 
424 
433 



VERSION 

OF 

THE SAXON ODE, 
«9n tfje Whtavv at i&wg gtf;cl£tan, at aSnmaufiurfllj. 

A.D. 938. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



This Ode, which is generally supposed to have been the compo- 
sition of some Saxon bard cotemporary with the event it celebrates, 
is here versified from the text of the original, given in Ellis's Ancient 
Romances, v. i, 14 ; to which is annexed, an exactly literal prose trans- 
lation. This copy, which Mr. Ellis received from a learned friend, was 
taken from two MSS. in the Cotton. Lib., British Museum, — Tibe- 
rius, B. IV. and A. VI. ; and it differs materially from the version 
given in Hickes' Saxon Grammar, and that in the Saxon Chronicle, 
which latter appears now in the garb of prose. On the respective 
merits of these, and on the points of difference, the Editor will not 
presume to give any opinion. His object has been, simply to offer a 
close and literal version of Mr. Ellis's copy, with no other interpola- 
tions than were absolutely necessary in giving it a metrical form : and 
he deemed it more advisable, in this manner, to shew the precise 
character and genius of the original, and the intimate connexion 
between the two languages, than to attempt investing it with the 
artificial decorations of modern refinement. The reader will, there- 
fore, not expect any of that romantic beauty which is to be found in 
Gray's imitations of ancient Northern Poetry. An account of the 
circumstances of the battle, may be seen in Hume's or in Goldsmith's 
History, or any similar work. 



Kikg Athelstan of warlike mould, 
The chief of earls and barons bold, 
And, second from that noble spring, 
His brother Edmund Atheling,* 

/Etheling signifies "the young noble:" — iEthel-stan, "the very noble. 



-O SAXON ODE. 

Of elders good a mighty train 
In shock of war have featly slain. 
Round Brunanburgh the field was spread,* 
Their blades a deadly course have sped, 
They cleave of shields th' united wall, 
They hew to earth the leaders tall, f 
The troubled Marches rest serene, 
As late in Edward's days was seen. 

To them, of ancient race and name, 
A fate of blest deliverance came, 
That oft, before their dreaded hand, 
Should flee each traitorous robber band, 
And leave, unvexed, the glad domain 
To prosper in a noble reign. 

Scotland's sons of land and deep, J 
Found many a youth the deathly sleep. 
The din of war rose sharp and dread, 
Thick sweat the warriors' limbs o'erspread, 

* Camden places this in Northumberland, on the coast between Bam- 
borough, and Coldingham in Scotland, and opposite to Lindisfarn, or Holy 
Island; and the name of the village at present nearest the site, he repre- 
sents to be Ford, near Bromeridge. But Bishop Gibson, on the authority 
of Florence of Worcester, who pronounces the hostile fleets to have entered 
the Humber, offers a conjecture, that the site of the engagement might 
have been much higher up ; — in Yorkshire or Lincolnshire. Such vexatious 
differences the Editor has before found to be not uncommon amongst anti- 
quaries; but he believes that, in the present instance, the former idea has 
by far the more numerous supporters. Mr. Hutchinson, in his History of 
Northumberland, inclines to Bishop Gibson's opinion of Broomridge, in 
that county, being the site of the battle ; adding, that " the many lines, 
breastworks, and entrenchments still remaining, testify that this was the 
place of some great action." He also (on the authority of some one of our old 
chroniclers) adds, as an ally to Constantine and Anlaf, Engenius, Oweine, or 
Ewaine, King of Cumberland, who fell in the engagement, and whom he 
supposes to have been buried in Penrith Church-yard, under a curious old 
monument, which remains to this day. 

t In one literal translation, this is rendered " banners." 

X The Saxon answers to the English " lad." 



SAXON ODE. O 

— Since o'er the fields at morning tide 
The greater Light began to glide,* 
God's candle — he of grace ador'd, 
Eternal and Almighty Lord, — 
Till latest in the fading west 
That creature of the High had rest. 

Full many a soldier strewed the field ; 
The North-man f stretched on useless shield, 
And noble Scottish chief from far, 
Red from the worrying shocks of war. 

The Wessex army all the day 

(A chosen herd) the rear assay, 

Their loathed foes they closely press, 

The lingering rearward sore distress ; 

The fugitives unhappy feel 

The sharpness of their piercing steel.J 

No rest th' unwearied Mercians knew; 
Their hardy hands were firm and true. 
Health then to Anlaf 's host was none, — 
By gales of favouring wind o'erblown, 
Who, o'er the bosom of the sea, 
Had sought this land, for sovereignty. 

Five sons of kings there prostrate lay, § 
By swords untimely swept away ; 

And seven, the earls of Anlaf 's train. 
Unnumbered pirates from the main, || 

* Saxon, — " the more (i. e. greater) twinkler." 

t North-men, — a general terra for Danes, called also Dacians, Norwe- 
gians or Norse, Icelanders, and others ; also, for the inhabitants of Orkney 
and Shetland, who were eminent for piracy on a large scale, and styled 
themselves sea-kings, or earls, and their ships sea-dragons. They here appear 
as allies to Scotland, although generally opposed, as in the modern ballad of 
Hardyknute, which is yet true to history. 

I Literally, — they " drilled" holes, or wounds, with their swords. 

§ This may also mean that they were kings at the time. 

|| The Saxon word is " unrim," said to be from the Latin innumerus. — 
The next word signifies, literally, " harassers." 



*± SAXON ODE. 

And Scottish men, with wild affright, 
Scarce saved their lives by hasty flight 

The North-man Chief, at utmost need, 
Upraised his voice * for instant speed : 
His remnant poor in sad retreat 
Tumultuous crowd the royal fleet, 
Then o'er the sea, at falling-tide, 
To distant lands in safety hied. 

And Constantine, of prudent thought, f 
His Northern realm most swiftly sought. 
There Hilderic, of hoary years, 
His loss bewailed with bitter tears. 
It little served his cause to groan, 
Yet much his mates he did bemoan. 

Short store of friends at home remain, X — 
They fell before, on hostile plain. 
His much-loved son is far away, — 
In blood, on wailful field, he lay. 

'Vailed not his barons to deplore, 
Young Atguth, old in wisdom's lore ; 
By bill-men stretched on foreign earth, § — 
Nought served his valour, nought his worth. 

* " Steven," — a word which continued in use till the fifteenth century. 

t King of Scotland. — The Saxon has the original Latin, " Constantiuus," 
a name or title borrowed, doubtless, from the Lower Empire. It would seem, 
from other copies, as if Hilde-rinc was only an epithet for the same person ; 
but this, and many other points, must be left for higher judgments. 

| Saxon, — " Short folk filled his folk-stede ; " so before, " camp -Steele," 
(i. e. place). The termination is still retained in " farm-stead," " home- 
stead," &c. 

§ The bills used in war were fixed at the end of long staves, similar to 
pike-handles. In process of time, with perhaps some little alteration of form, 
they were called partizans and halberts. 



SAXON ODE. 

Nor more shall haughty Anlaf * boast, 

With remnant of his scattered host, 

That they, forsooth, are best in fight, 

And theirs, in camp, more conquering might. 

When next the Motesf in council met, 
Then sighs were heard, and cheeks were wet; 
For many a heavy ransom told, 
Must free their friends from captive hold : 
And they the weighty charge must brook, 
Which first, with oaths, they undertook. 

The Northern ships, with tackled gear % 
And scanty crews, in grief and fear, 
Have launched them on the dreary deep, 
And o'er the dingy waters creep, — 
They rest them first on Dublin § strand, 
Then seek with shame their native land. 

Then, too, the brothers twain depart, — 
King Athelstan's of noble heart, 
And Atheling's united band, 
With joy return to Wessex land. |j 

The airy, screaming birds of war, — 
The Bittern's hollow note from far, — 



* The Danish king. — Dr. Percy thinks this should be spelt Anlai, 
Aulaf being evidently the genuine northern name Olaff or Olave, Lat. 
Olaus. 

t Mote, or ^e-mote, i. e. the mote, a term for a provincial council or 
incorporation. It is still retained in " ward-mote." Wittena-ge-mote, was 
" the assembly of wise men," and is said to have been the origin of Parlia- 
ments, styled, from the French, " parler," to speak. 

$ Literal, — i.e. With their rigging repaired. 

§ Saxon, — Dyffien, and Difelin. 

i| This, which included seven counties in the West, was their ancient 
patrimonial kingdom; and it continued, in some measure, a separate juris- 
diction, long after the union of the Heptarchy. 



V SAXON ODE. 

They leave behind; — the paddock's croak,* — 
The Raven swarth, from woodland oak, 
With hooked beak and horny bill, f — 
House-wooding Heron, whose food is still % 
White fishes from the mountain-flood, — 
The ravenous Goshawk, gorged with blood, — 
The wild Deer grey, from lonely glen, § — 
The Wolf, the savage foe of men. 

Was ne'er more wail or sorrow rife 
In England's isle, from deadly strife, 
(Since first her ancient race arose), 
From blade's keen edge, or battle close, 
(So they who ancient books explore — 
The elders, wise in clerkly lore), [| 
Since first up-came from Eastern land, 
The Anglian and the Saxon band ; 
When, o'er the broad opposing brine, ^[ 
They sought the crown of Britain's line, 

* Toad. 

t Literally, " nib." 

X Literal,— i.e. that has its nests in the woods. This word " earn," the 
other copies render eagle, and flesh instead of fish ; with other important 
variations from the present copy, to which the learned are referred. 

§ Deor. — In the Saxon Chronicle, " grcege-deor " is translated as an 
epithet to the wolf, " parti-coloured." On the authority of Mr. Ellis, it is a 
separate animal; but it does not follow from the preceding, that it was a 
beast of the stag kind. Deer was, it seems, formerly a general term for a 
great variety of wild animals, both large and small ; as plainly appears from 
a passage in the old Anglo-Saxon romance of " Bevis of Hampton "—(from 
whence it is borrowed by Shakspeare, in Lear, Act Hi. Sc. iv.)— 

" Mice and rats, and such small deer, 
Was his meat that seven year." 

|| Literal, — i. e. So it is related by the learned elders, who search 
ancient books. 

IT " Broad brine," Saxon. At the time this ode was written, the Saxons 
had been in possession of England about 400 years. 



SAXON ODE. 



With shock of lances, keen and bright, 
The Welch subdued in valour's spite ; 
When, in the ages old and gone, 
The Earls they quelled, the land they won. 



ADDENDA. 

<l It is rather unfortunate," says Mr. Ritson, " that among the 
tolerably numerous relics of Saxon literature still extant, we find no 
songs. In the Saxon Chronicle, indeed, there are two or three poet- 
ical pieces, the principal one being in celebration of King Athel- 
stane's victory, gained over Anlaff the Dane ; which may be speci- 
mens of their ode, and were, possibly, sung to the harp. There is 
also extant, a short poem in praise of the city of Durham." 

What limits Mr. Ritson assigns to the term song, we cannot pre- 
cisely ascertain ; but we find, from higher authorities on this subject, 
that the remains of Saxon -poetry are by no means so few or insig- 
nificant. On this subject, which is by much too important for the 
compass of these observations, or the Editor's capability, ample 
satisfaction will be found in the works of Hickes, Manning, Cony- 
beare, Sharon Turner, &c. &c, and several excellent Grammars 
or Introductions in English, published within the last thirty years. 
We find King Alfred himself, to have been a poetical as well as 
prose author and translator ; and some really elevated poems on 
sacred subjects were written by Ca'dmon, in the seventh century. 
They modelled their verse by alliteration, by a periodical return of the 
same letters in the words, and by rhythm ; an ancient and classical 
term, which is not over-easy of definition ; but which appears to mean 
an harmonious return of syllables of the same or equal sound, at 
regular distances — or in short, such a position of words and cadences 
as has a melodious effect on a good ear. In its full acceptation, 
however, this phrase is applicable to sound, unconnected with letters 
or characters ; it is consequently the essence of music, and its rudi- 
ments were to be found in the tones of Pythagoras' s anvil. A 
good peal of eight bells, well set, contains the same essential 
properties of rhythm as a line of eight syllables. The Anglo- 
Saxons did not use feet, like the Greeks and Romans, in their 
poetry. Mr. Ritson confidently asserts that rhyme was not in use 
till after the Norman Conquest; but this is not true, as several 
examples of Anglo-Saxon rhymes are recorded in Mr. Turner's 
work ; and from the circumstance of several Anglo-Saxon poets 
having written Latin verses in rhyme before the year 800, it is plain 
that this art was known in their day. In the Teutonic, or Runic, 
it was used in the vernacular poetry from an early period. But we 



O SAXON ODE. 

learn from Mr. Conybeare, that the additional ornament of rhyme 
was by no means of common occurrence in Anglo-Saxon poetry ; 
and Mr. Ritson's conjecture, that it was introduced or perfected by 
the Danes, who had obtained a footing in the tenth century, and 
who were of the ancient Runic stock, seems deserving of some atten- 
tion. We have also the fragment of a song composed extempore by 
Canute the Great, as with his Queen and Court he was passing by 
water to Ely, A.D. 1017, to hold a solemn feast ; when hearing 
the monks chant, he was so delighted with the sweetness of the 
melody, that he burst forth in a poetical strain, of which this was 
the commencement. It shews, at this late period of the Saxon rule, 
a great affinity to the earliest English language, about two cen- 
turies after. 

Merie sungen the Muneches binnen Ely, 
Tha Cnut ching reu ther by. 
Roweth, Cnihtes noer the lond, (or, lant), 
And here we thes Muneches sang. 

Merry sang the Monks within Ely, 

When Cnut the King rowed thereby. 

" Row, ye Knights, near the land (along), 

And hear we these Monks' song." Ed. 

The following is said by Mr. Ritson to be the most ancient 
Ejiglish song now extant, which, on grounds which seem to him 
incontrovertible, he refers to the middle of the thirteenth century. 
It is inserted in Sir John Hawkins', and Dr. Burney's Histories of 
Music, by whom it is attributed to the fifteenth century ; but very 
incorrectly according to Ritson. It is accompanied by "a very 
masterly musical composition, for six voices, in the nature of a 
catch." The song is in praise of the Cuckoo, and cannot by any 
means be considered inharmonious. 

Svmer, is icumen in. 
Lhude sing cuccu. 
Groweth sed and bloweth med 
And spring th the wde nu. 

Sing cucu. 
Awe bleteth after lomb , 
Lhouth after calue~ cu. 
Bulluc sterteth. 
Bucke uerteth. 
Murie sing cuccu. 

Cuccu cuccu. 
Wei singes thu cuccu 
Ne swik thu nauer nu. 



SAXON ODE. 

In modern orthography, it would appear thus :- 

Summer is i-comen* in ! 

Loud sing, cuckoo ! 
Groweth seed, and bloweth mead, 
And springeth the wood, now. 

— Sing cuckoo ! 
Ewe bleateth after lamb, 
Loweth after calf cow : 
Bullock starteth, 
Buck verteth,t 

Merry sing, cuckoo ! 
— Cuckoo, cuckoo ! — 
Well sing'st thou, cuckoo ! 
Nor swikt thou never now. Ed. 



* t. e. Come. 

t "Goes to harbour in the fern." — Ritson. Perhaps from vert, 
green. — Ed. 

1 Be silent. 



B 2 



CHEW-CHASE. 



I never heard the old song of Piercy and Douglas, that I found not my 
heart more moved than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung by some blind 
crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style, which being s& evil ap- 
parelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work, 
trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar? — Sir Philip Sidney. — 
( Quoted by Addison, Spec. 70, 1\). 

It was not known to Mr. Addison that Sir Philip had never seen 
the present ballad, the style of which is no rougher or less orna- 
mented than his own ; and is, as Addison justly observes, quite 
equal to Queen Elizabeth's days. The more ancient ballad, which 
from its general appearance and indications, Dr. Percy considers to 
be full as old as the reign of Henry VI. (i. e. probably about 1440 
or 1450), is published in the " Reliques," vol. i., 1. The Editor 
has subjoined some of the most prominent instances of difference 
between the two. ». 

Another ancient ballad, materially connected with the plot and 
situation of the present, exists, under the title of the " Battle of 
Otterbourne," — Reliques, i., 18; — and to this the evidence of 
history affords, in a greater degree, the credit of veracity ; such a 
skirmish having undoubtedly taken place, and having been recorded 
by all our best chroniclers, and very circumstantially by Froissart. 
In this, Earl Douglas invades that part of Northumberland called 
Bamboroughshire, and lays waste the country to the walls of New 
Castell, wherein lies Sir Henry Percy, called Hotspur: a parley 
takes place at the walls ; they agree to meet at a future day, and at 
a more convenient spot. An engagement accordingly takes place, 
in which Douglas is killed, and Hotspur taken prisoner. This is, in 
brief, a summary of the occurrences of this ancient poem ; and such, 
with some slight variations, are recorded in history at the date of 
1388. Dr. Percy conceives the story of the ballad of Chevy Chase 
to be true, as far as relates to the hunting, &c; but that the con- 
cluding events are borrowed by the authors from the battle of Otter- 
bourne. The precise date, therefore, of the occurrences on which 
the story of Chevy Chase is founded, is uncertain. Dr. Percy 
thinks they may have been prior to the other, and that the battle of 
Otterbourne was provoked by some such affront as the expedition of 
Percy, described in this ballad. 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



11 



The Cheviots are a range of hills between Northumberland and 
Roxburghshire : the spiral summit of one of the principal is con- 
sidered to be as high as any mountain in England. At the foot of 
these is a long track of flat and marshy ground, called the Cheviot 
Moors. All this country was included in the district belonging 
to both kingdoms, styled " the Marches/' and sometimes " the 
Debateable Ground," from its being a constant scene of dispute and 
hostility. It was one of the laws of these Marches, frequently renewed 
between the two nations, that neither party should hunt in the bor- 
ders of the other without leave ; and in time of peace, the borderers 
on both sides were accustomed, in the autumn of the year, to send 
to the Lord Warden of the opposite border, for leave to hunt within 
his bounds. But if they ventured to do this without permission 
asked, this official was always prompt to resent the insult offered. 
We have only, then, to suppose that Earl Douglas was the Lord 
Warden of the Scottish Marches, and which is actually declared in 
the older ballad ; and then there will remain nothing unexplained 
for the full understanding of this celebrated legend. 



God prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safeties all ; 
A woeful hunting once there did 

In Chevy-Chace befal : * 

* The title of the old ballad is, " The Hunting at the Cheviatt." The style 
has a more rugged appearance, from its being written in the broadest 
northern dialect. The first stanza, which has six lines, and the second, run 
as follows : — 

The Perse owt of Northombarlond, 

And a vowe to God made he, 
That he wolde hunt in the mountaynes 

Of Cheviat, within days thre, 
In the mauger (spite) of doughte Dogles, 
And all that ever with him be. 

The fattest harts in all Cheviat 

He sayd he wold kill, and cary them away 
" Be my feth," sayd the doughte Doglas agen, 

" I wyll let (hinder) that hontyng, yf that I may." 
From the word " King " at the beginning of this verse, it is probable the 
composition was in the time of James I. A skirmish took place between the 
second Earl of Northumberland, son of Hotspur, and Earl William Douglas, 
of Angus, at a place called Pepperden, near the Cheviot, in 143(5, which by 
some has been supposed to have been the ground-work of Chevy-Chase. 



12 



CHEVY-CHASE. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 

Earl Percy took his way : 
The child may rue that is unborn 

The hunting of that day. * 

The stout Earl of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer's days to take ; 

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace 

To kill and bear away. — 
The tidings to Earl Douglas came 

In Scotland, where he lay ; 

Who sent Earl Percy present word 
He would prevent his sport. 

The English Earl, not fearing that, 
Did to the woods resort, 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold; 

All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well, in time of need, 

To aim their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 

To chace the fallow deer : 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

Ere day-light did appear ; 

And long before high noon they had 
A hundred fat bucks slain ; 



* " This way of considering the misfortunes which this battle would 
bring on posterity, not only on those who were born immediately after the 
battle, and lost their fathers in it, but on those also who perished in future 
battles, which took their rise from this quarrel of the two Earls, is wonder- 
fully beautiful, and conformable to the way of thinking among the ancient 
poets."— Addison. 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



13 



Then, having dined, the drovers went * 
To rouse the deer again. 

The bowmen mustered on the hills, 

Well able to endure; 
Their backsides all, with special care, 

That day were guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods 

The nimble deer to take ; 
And with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went, f 

To view the slaughtered deer ; 
Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised 

This day to meet me here : 

If that I thought he would not come, 

No longer would I stay, — 
With that a brave young gentleman 

Thus to the Earl did say : 

Lo ! yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 

His men in armour bright ; 
Full twenty-hundred Scottish spears, 

All marching in our sight ; 

All men of pleasant Tivydale, % 

Fast by the river Tweed. — 
Then cease your sport, Earl Percy said, 

And take your bows with speed : 

* In the original, it is said, the huntsmen " blew a mort," — an old term 
for the notes on the horn calling hack the dogs after the death of the deer. 

t This the Editor believes to be a term for any slaughtered game; or 
here perhaps for the place in which they were stowed. 

t Teviotdale, one of the three divisions of Roxburghshire, the others being 
Liddesdale and Eskdale. The part of Northumberland adjoining the Cheviot 
had also three divisions, — Islandshire, from Holy Island, or Lindisfarn ; 



14 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



And now with me, my countrymen, 

Your courage forth advance ; 
For there was never champion yet, 

In Scotland or in France, 

That ever did on horseback come, 

But, if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter, man for man, 

With him to break a spear. 

Earl Douglas on a milk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of the company, 

Whose armour shone like gold. 

Shew me, said he, whose men ye be, 

That hunt so boldly here ; 
That, without my consent, do chace 

And kill my fallow-deer? * 

The man that first did answer make, 

Was noble Percy he ; 
Who said, We list f not to declare, 

Nor shew whose men we be. 

Yet will we spend our dearest blood, 
Thy chiefest harts to slay. 

Norhamshire, from Norham town and castle ; and Bamboroughshire, from 
Bamborough Castle. In the old ballad, v. 3.—" Then the Perse owt of 
Banborowe came." — " The country of the Scotch warriors described in these 
two last verses, has a fine romantic situation, and affords a couple of smooth 
words for verse." — Addison. 

* There are no deer now in the Cheviot, and the wood is almost entirely 
destroyed ; but it formerly abounded with both. Dr. Percy has transcribed 
a passage from Leland, who wrote at the beginning of the sixteenth century. 
" In Northumberland, as I lieare say, be no forests, except Chivet Hills, 
where is much brusshe wood, and some olkke (oak) ; grownde overgrowne 
with linge, and some with mosse. I have harde say that Chivet Hills 
stretcheth XX miles. There is great plente of redde-deer and roo bukkes." 

t Choose. 



CHEVY-CHASE. 15 



Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 
And thus in rage did say : — 

Ere thus I will out-braved be, 

One of us two shall die : 
I know thee well; an Earl thou art, 

Lord Percy: so am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pity it were, * 

And great offence to kill 
Any of these our guiltless men, 

For they have done no ill. 

Let thou and I the battle try, 
And set our men aside. — 

Accursed be he, Earl Percy said, 
By whom this is denied. 

Then stepped a gallant 'Squire forth, 
Witherington was his name, 

Who said, I would not have it told 
To Henry our King, for shame, 

That e'er my Captain fought on foot, 
And I stood looking on :f 

You be two Earls, said Witherington, 
And I a 'squire alone : 



* Mr. Addison speaks of this as a sentiment suitable to a hero. It does 
indeed shew a bright glimmering of virtuous and Christian charity. It is a 
pity that personal disputes of ambitious and selfish leaders, like Charles XII. 
or Napoleon Buonaparte, could not always thus be settled (if there must be 
bloodshed) by themselves alone. We should not then have — 

" Quicquid delirant Reges plectuntur Achivi." 
Of which, the reader, if he is content to smile at it, may take the following 
doggrel translation : — 

Whate'er mad antic foolish kings commit, 

Their luckless subjects always pay for it. 

t " We meet with the same heroic sentiments in Virgil. — See JEneid, xii. 
'2-2!)."— Addison. 



16 



CHEVY-CHASE. 

I'll do the best that do I may, 
While I have power to stand ; 

While I have power to wield my sword, 
I'll fight with heart and hand. 

Our English archers bent their bows, 
Their hearts were good and true; 

At the first flight of arrows sent, 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn, 
Earl Douglas had the bent : * 

A Captain, moved with mickle pride, 
The spears to shivers sent. 

They closed full fast on every side, 
No slackness there was found ; 

And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

O Christ ! it was a grief to see, 

And likewise for to hear 
The cries of men lying in their gore, 

And scattered here and there. 

At last these two stout Earls did meet, 
Like Captains of great might ; 

Like lions wild, they laid on load, 
And made a cruel fight. 



* This, in the old ballad, is the beginning of the second fytte, or ./if, an old 
term for the division of a song. These two lines, as they stand here alone, 
are absolute nonsense. Dr. Percy has admirably elucidated the mistake of 
the more modern composer, who took the word bent to mean disposition of 
mind ; whereas, in the old copy, it is — 

" Yet bides the Earl Doglas upon the bent ;" 
i. e. grass, or field. " Still Earl Douglas keeps the field." The first line, 
" to drive the deer," &c. is particularly absurd, occurring, as it does, in the 
midst of the description of a fight. Dr. Percy has here added three stanzas 
of his own composition, modernised from the old ballad — Reliques, i. 279. 



CHEVY-CHASE. 17 

They fought until they both did sweat, 

With swords of tempered steel ; 
Until the blood, like drops of rain, 

They trickling down did feel. 

Yield thee, Lord Percy, Douglas said, 

In faith I will thee bring 
Where thou shalt high advanced be, 

By James our Scottish King. 

Thy ransom I will freely give, 

And thus report of thee : 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see. 

No, Douglas, quoth Earl Percy then, 

Thy proffer I do scorn ; 
I will not yield to any Scot 

That ever yet was born. 

With that there came an arrow keen * 

Out of an English bow, 
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, 

A deep and deadly blow : 

Who never spoke more words than these : 

Fight on, my merry men all ; 
For why ? my life is at an end : 

Lord Percy sees my fall, f 

Then leaving life, Earl Percy took 

The dead man by the hand : 
And said, Earl Douglas, for thy life 

Would I had lost my land ! 

* " iEneas was wounded after the same manner by an unknown hand, in 
the midst of a parley. — JEneid, xii. 318."— Addison. 

+ " Turnus did not die after so heroic a manner ; though our poet seems 
to have his eye upon Turnus's speech, in the last verse. — JEn. xii. 936." — 
Addison. 

There is no mention of Percy made by Douglas, in the old ballad. With 



18 



CHEVY-CHASE. 

O Christ ! my very heart doth bleed * 

"With sorrow for thy sake ; 
For sure a more redoubted knight 

Mischance could never take. 

A knight amongst the Scots there was, 
Which saw Earl Douglas die, 

Who straight in wrath did vow revenge, 
Upon the Lord Percy : 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery he was called ; 

Who with a spear most bright, 
Well mounted on a gallant steed, 

Ran fiercely through the fight : 

And passed the English archers all, 

Without all dread or fear ; 
And through Earl Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear : 

With such a vehement force and might 

He did his body gore, 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard, and more. 



respect to the imitation of Virgil by the respective authors, there can be 
little doubt that the second was able to read it in the original ; nor, perhaps, 
will any reader impute a lower degree of learning to the first. The Editor 
believes the first translation of Virgil into English to have been that of 
Gawain Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld, in Scotland, about the year 1510. 

* " Earl Piercy's lamentation over his enemy is generous, beautiful, and 
passionate. I must only caution the reader not to let the simplicity of the 
style prejudice him against the greatness of the thought. * * * That beau- 
tiful line ' Taking the dead man by the hand,' will put the reader in mind of 
iEneas's behaviour towards Lausus, whom he himself had slain, as he came 
to the rescue of his aged father. — 

" At vero ut vultum vidit morientis, et ora 
Ora modis Anchisiades pallentia miris, 
Ingemuit, miserans graviter, dextramque tetendit." 
JEn. x. 822.— Addison. 



CHEVY-CHASE. 19 

So thus did both these nobles die, * 

Whose courage none could stain ; 
An English archer then perceived 

The noble Earl was slain ; 

He had a bow bent in his hand, 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long f 

Up to the head drew he : 

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery 

So right the shaft he set, 
The grey-goose wing that was thereon 

In his heart's-blood was wet. 

The fight did last from break of day 

'Till setting of the sun ; 
For when they rung the evening-bell \ 

The battle scarce was done. 

* " Of all the descriptive parts of this song, there are none more beautiful 
than the four following stanzas, which have a great force and spirit in them, 
and are filled with very natural circumstances. The thought in the third 
stanza was never touched by any other poet, and it is such a one as would 
have shined in Homer or Virgil." — Addison. 

In the old ballad, instead of " goose wing," it is " swan feather," a much 
more poetical expression. We read of arrows furnished with peacocks' fea- 
thers, in Chaucer, &c— See Warton, i. 450. 
t An ell. 

% In the old ballad it is " Eveng-song (t. e. vesper) bell," which was rung at 
six o'clock : — the action also here is much extended. 
" This battell began in Chyviat, 

An owar (hour) befor the none, 

And when even-song bell was rang, 

The battell was not half done. 

" They tooke on, on eithar hand, 
By the lyght of the moone." 
" That it was formerly looked upon as an uncommon, and perhaps irreli- 
gious circumstance, for a Christian army to continue engaged after the ringing 
of this bell, appears from a similar passage in the ancient Spanish romance 
of ' Tirant lo Blanc' — L e. Tirant the White. — Vide Don Quixote, ch. vi., 
(where the Licentiate passes a high encomium on it. — Ed.) Barcelona, 1497, 
where it is said, — ' E continuant toste 'ps la batailla, era ia quasi horade 



20 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



With stout Earl Percy there was slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Roger Ratcliffe and Sir John, 

Sir James that hold Baron : 

And with Sir George, and good Sir James, 

Both knights of good account, 
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, 

Whose prowess did surmount. 

For Witherington needs must I wail, 

As one in doleful dumps ; 
For when his legs were smitten off, 

He fought upon his stumps. 

And with Earl Douglas there was slain, 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery : 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foot would never flee. 

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliffe too, 

His sister's son was he ; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

Yet saved could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell, in like case, 

Did with Earl Douglas die :* 
Of twenty-hundred Scottish spears 

Scarce fifty-five did fly. 

vespres,' &c. chap. 157, (i. e. And the battle still continuing, it was the hour 
that there should have been vespers." — Ed.) Ritson. 

The commencement of the battle is here also properly stated at " eleven" 
o'clock in the forenoon, previous to which they had taken their dinner, 
which, however strange it may appear to us, answers faithfully to the 
manners of the times. They had risen probably at three or four, and taken 
their breakfast soon after. The author of the later ballad is guilty of a flagrant 
oversight here, as he had before declared that it was after dinner that the 
approach of the Douglas was announced. 

* The names are here given from the researches of Dr. Percy, and are 
improvements on the text of both ballads. It should be observed, that in 



21 



CHEVY-CHASE. 

Of fifteen-hundred Englishmen 

Went home but fifty-three : 
The rest were slain in Chevy-Chace, 

Under the green-wood tree. 

Next day did many widows come, 

Their husbands to bewail, 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears, 

But all would not prevail. 

Their bodies, bathed in purple gore, 

They bore with them away ; 
They kissed them, dead, a thousand times, 

Ere they were clad in clay. 

This news was brought to Edenborrow, 
Where Scotland's King did reign, 

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
Was with an arrow slain. 



the more ancient, no flight is attributed to the Scots : it merely mentions the 
numbers that went away on either side. The stanza on Witherington, or 
Widdrington, is much superior to the modern, and has nothing of that 
familiar, and all but burlesque, appearance. 

" For Wethairyngton my hart was wo 
Tiiat ever lie slayn shuld be ! 
For when both his leggis wear heun in to (two), 
Yet he knyled and fought on his kne." 

" In the catalogue of the slain, the author has followed the example of the 
greatest ancient poets, not only in giving a long list of the dead, but by 
diversifying it with little characters of particular persons. * * * The two 
last verses, ' So well esteemed,' &c, look almost like a translation of Virgil." 



Cadit et Ripheus, justissimus unus, 



Qui fuit in Teucris et servantissimus eequi, 

Diis aliter visum est." JEn. ii. v. 426. — Addison. 

To which he might have added another passage in the same book. 

■ Nee te tua plurima Pantheu 

Labentem pietas, ntc Apollinis infula tegit. 



22 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



O, heavy news ! King James did say ; * 

Scotland can witness be, 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as he. 

Like tidings to King Henry came, 

Within as short a space, 
That Percy of Northumberland 

Was slain in Chevy-Chace. 

Now God be with him, said our king, 

Sith it will no better be ; 
I trust I have within my realm 

Five hundred as good as he : 

Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say 

But I will vengeance take ; 
And be revenged on them all, 

For brave Earl Percy's sake. 

This vow full well the king performed, 

After, on Humbledowne ; f 
In one day fifty knights were slain, 

With lords of great renown : 

* James I. of Scotland is probably here meant, who began to reign in 
1424. If, therefore, this skirmish is supposed to have taken place near the 
time of the battle of Otterburne, the introduction of King James is a 
grievous anachronism. 

t The battle of Humbledowne was fought in 1402, which again throws 
back the date of this skirmish to a period nearly cotemporary with the battle 
of Otterbourne. The number of knights in the old ballad is " thirty-six." — 
Humbledon is one mile distant from the town of Woller, in Northumberland, 
where a stone pillar marks the site of the engagement, to this day. 

The conclusion of the old ballad is very unconnected, and confounds with 
the present occasion several circumstances of the battle of Otterbourne. — As 
the very learned and industrious Editor of the ' Reliques ' was unable to re- 
concile all the chronological differences which attend this subject, the attempt 
may be reasonably excused here. It will perhaps be sufficient for the general 
reader to learn, that Chevy-Chase is founded on many facts, which remain 
uncontroverted : that it contains a faithful representation of the manners of 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



23 



And of the rest, of small account, 

Did many thousands die. 
— Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, 

Made by the Earl Percy. — 

God save our King, and bless this land 

In plenty, joy, and peace ! 
And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 

'Twixt noblemen may cease. 

the age, and that it was composed at a period approaching very nearly to the 
events. If more be required to give it interest, it may be remembered that 
it has been, for nearly four centuries, the admiration of our forefathers of all 
ages and characters; that childhood has heard it ever with eagerness and de- 
light ; and that mature age has looked back upon it with complacency and 
fondness, as the delight of childhood. 



KING ESTMERE. 



The high antiquity of this ballad, is inferred from its speaking 
familiarly of the Moorish Kings of Spain (" the King of Spayne is a 
foule Paynim)," as a circumstance well known to its contemporaries. 
These infidels, who had over-run the finest countries of the East, 
effected a lodgment in Spain, about the year 700, under the general 
name of Moors and Saracens, and established several governments or 
kingdoms, particularly at Cordova and Grenada. And although they 
were constantly beset by the Christian subjects of the ancient Gothic 
conquerors, they continued to possess part of the kingdom until 
the year 1492 ; a period of upwards of seven hundred years, when 
they were at length finally expelled. We may therefore assign to 
the following composition, as early a date as the year 1400; par- 
ticularly as its representations of manners and customs are exactly 
suitable to the character and simplicity of that early period. Dr. 
Percy notices the high estimation and honour in which it clothes the 
character of the Minstrel. " Here he will see one of them repre- 
sented mounted on a fine horse, accompanied with an attendant to 
bear his harp after him, and to sing the poems of his composing — 
mixing in the company of kings without ceremony : no mean proof 
of the great antiquity of this poem." The limits of a note render 
it impossible to give here even a faint outline of the history of 
the progress and succession of Minstrelsy in Europe, — a subject of 
high interest to the feelings, — as, in its full extent and antiquity, 
it comprehends not only classical, but sacred and venerable associ- 
ations, connected with the earliest records of mankind. Song 
appears, in all countries, to have been one of the first and most 
favourite methods of preserving tradition, and the exploits of 
admired heroes. A valuable account of the minstrelsy of the 
middle ages will be found in Percy's Reliques, and Ritson's 
Ancient Songs, and in the works of Ellis and Warton : and Dr. 
Burney's History of Music contains almost all that could be wished 
on the general history of the science. It may be here observed, 



KIXG ESTMERE. CO 

that the art of singing in parts, which is supposed to have been utterly 
unknown to the ancient Greeks and Romans, was practised by the an- 
cient northern nations, the Scandinavians, whether Danes called Da- 
cians, or Icelanders, Norwegians, and olhers, at a very early period. 
And we are informed by Giraldus Cambrensis, that the inhabitants 
of the North of England beyond the Humber, were acquainted with 
the treble and bass, which they had learned from the Danes, &c, 
who made frequent expeditions and seizures on that coast ; and that 
they alone had this knowledge. Giraldus wrote about the year 1180. 
" Later writers, however, incline to believe, that they had learned 
it from the method observed in chanting the service, by the monks of 
Wearmouth, in the bishopric of Durham." — Ritson. Perhaps from 
both ; but Mr. Ritson has here stopped short in his explanation, as 
he might thus have traced it to Rome. The Editor makes no apo- 
logy for introducing some particulars, which he considers interesting, 
derived from the works of the Venerable Bede, who was a monk of 
Wearmouth Abbey, as given in Warton's History of English Poetry. 
In the year 688, Pope Vitellian appointed, as Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, Theodore, a Roman monk., and formerly a Greek priest at 
Tarsus in Cilicia ; who, besides the Greek and Latin languages, was 
skilled in poetry, astronomy, arithmetic, and church-music. There 
returned with him to England, one Benedict Biscop (afterwards St. 
Benedict), a Northumbrian ecclesiastic, who had made frequent 
journeys to Rome, and who now, by means of workmen from France, 
built the monastery of Wearmouth ; the church of which was of 
stone, in the Roman style, and the walls and roof ornamented with 
scriptural pictures, which he bought at Rome ; and the windows 
filled with glass, by French glaziers. " In one of his expeditions 
to Rome, he brought over John, arch-chantor of St. Peter's, who 
introduced the Roman method of singing mass." " He taught the 
monks of Benedict's Abbey ; and all the singers of the monasteries 
of that province came from various parts to hear him sing." And 
about the same time, Acca, bishop of Hexham, in Northumberland, 
having finished his cathedral, by the help of Italian artists, invited 
from Kent a celebrated chanter, named Maban, and employed, for 
twelve years, his talents in introducing a new and improved style of 
church-music throughout his diocese. — See Dissertation ii., Warton's 
History, 4to ed., 1774. From this tuition of their forefathers by the 
Danish Scalds, is supposed to have arisen the constant superiority of 
the minstrels of the " North Country." 



Hearken to me, gentlemen, 

Come, and you shall hear, 
I'll tell you of two of the boldest brethren, 

That ever born y-were. 
c 



26 



KING ESTMERE. 



The one of them was Adler young, 

The other was King Estmere, 
They were as bold men in their deeds, 

As any were, far and near. 

As they were drinking ale and wine, 

Within King Estmere 's hall — 
When will ye marry a wife, brother, 

A wife to glad us all ? 

Then bespake him King Estmere, 

And answered him hastily, 
I know not that lady in any land, 

That's able* to marry with me. 

King Adland hath a daughter, brother, 

Men call her bright and sheen, 
If I were king here in your stead, 

That lady should be my queen 

Says, read f me, read me, dear brother, 

Throughout merry England, 
Where we might find a messenger, 

Betwixt us two to send. 

Says, you shall ride yourself, brother, 

I'll bear your company ; 
Many through false messengers are deceived, 

And I fear lest so should we. 

Thus they renisht J them to ride 

Of two good renisht steeds, 
And when they came to King Adland's hall, 

Of red gold shone their weeds. 

* Fit, suitable. 

t Or rede, advise, from the Saxon. 

% Adorned, or furnished. Dr. Percy thinks, possibly, from the Latin, re- 
niteo. Weeds was an old word for clothes, still in some measure retained. 
Gold has generally the epithet of red, in old ballads and romances. 



27 



KING ESTMERE. 

And when they came to King Adland's hall, 

Before the goodly gate, 
There they found good King Adland, 

Rearing himself thereat. * 

Now Christ thee save, good King Adland, 

Now Christ you save and see ! 
Said, you be welcome, King Estmere, 

Right heartily to me. 

You have a daughter, said Adler young, 

Men call her bright and sheen, 
My brother would marry her to his wife, 

Of England to be queen. 

Yesterday, was at my dear daughter, 
Sir Bremor, the King of Spain, 

And then she nicked him of nay, f 
And I doubt she will do you the same. 

The King of Spain is a foul paynim. 

And 'lieveth on Mahound, J 
And pity it were that fair lady 

Should marry a heathen hound. 

But grant to me, says King Estmere, 

For my love I you pray, 
That I may see your daughter dear, 

Before I go hence away. 



* A curious specimen of simplicity in manners. Dr. Percy compares it with 
Mentes, king of the Taphians, lolling at Ulysses' gate, to inquire for that 
monarch, when he had landed from a voyage in his own merchant-ship. — 
Odyssey, i. 105. 

The entire simplicity of the passage has evaporated in the smooth transla- 
tion of Pope. 

+ Cut him short, as now would be said, with a refusal. 

| The usual method in which the Christians then pronounced the name of 



Mahomet, or properly, Mohammed. 



28 



KING ESTMERE, 

Although it is seven years and more 
Since my daughter was in hall, 

She shall come once down for your sake. 
To glad my guests all. 

Down then came that maiden fair 

With ladies laced in pall, 
And half a hundred of bold knights, 

To bring them from bower to hall, 
And as many gentle squires, 

To tend upon them all. 

The talents of gold were on her head set. 
Hanged low down to her knee, 

And every ring on her small finger 
Shone of the crystal free. 

Says, God you save, my dear madam, 

Says, God you save and see ! 
Said, you be welcome, King Estmere, 

Right welcome unto me. 

And if you love. me, as you say, 

So well and heartily, 
All that ever you are coming about, 

Soon sped now it shall be. 

Then bespake her father dear, 

My daughter, I say nay, 
Remember well the King of Spain 

What he said yesterday. 

He would pull down my halls and castles, 

And reave me of my life ; 
I cannot blame him if he do, 

If I reave him of his wife. 

Your castles and your towers, father, 
Are strongly built about ; 



KING ESTMERE. 



29 



And therefore of the King of Spain 
We need not stand in doubt. 

Plight me your troth, now King Estmere, 

By heaven and your right hand ! 
That you will marry me to your wife, 

And make me queen of your land. 

Then King Estmere he plight his troth, 

By heaven and his right hand, 
That he would marry her to his wife, 

And make her queen of his land. 

And he took leave of that lady fair, 

To go to his own country, 
To fetch him dukes and lords and knights, 

That married they might be. 

They had not ridden scant a mile, 

A mile forth of the town, 
But in did come the King of Spain 

With Kempes * many a one. 

But in did come the King of Spain 

With many a bold baron, 
One day to marry King Adland's daughter, 

T'other day to carry her home. 

She sent one after King Estmere, 

In all the speed might be, 
That he must either turn again and fight. 

Or go home and lose his lady. 

One while the page he went, 

Another while he ran, 
Till he had overtaken King Estmere. 

I wis he never blanne. 

* A man of war. Kemperye, the same, — from the German, according to 
Dr. Percy. 



30 



KING ESTMERE. 



Tidings ! tidings ! King Estmere ! 
What tidings now my boy I 

tidings I can tell to you 
That will you sore annoy. 

You had not ridden scant a mile, 

A mile out of the towne, 
But in did come the King of Spain, 

With Kempes many a one. 

But in did come the King of Spain, 

With many a bold baron, 
The one day to marry King Adland's daughter. 

T'other day to carry her home. 

My lady fair she greets you well, 

And ever more well by me ; 
You must either turn again and fight, 

Or go home and lose your lady. 

Says, read me, read me, dear brother, 

My rede shall ryde * at thee, 
Whether it is better to turn and fight, 

Or go home and lo^se my lady. 

Now hearken to me, says Adler young, 
And your rede must rise, at me, 

1 quickly will devise a way, 
To set thy lady free. 

My mother was a western woman, 

And learned in gramarye, f 
And when I learned at the school, 

Something she taught it me. 

* My counsel shall come from thee. 

t The old word for magic of all kinds. Dr. Percy derives it from the 
French word grimoire, which signifies a booh of spells. The Editor would 
almost have ventured to derive it from grammaire (i. e. learning), as most 
persons of unusual knowledge were then thought to have supernatural powers. 



KING ESTMERE. 31 

There grows an herb within this field, 

And if it were but known, 
His colour which is white and red, 

It will make black and brown. 

His colour which is brown and black, 

It will make red and white, 
That sword is not in all England 

Upon his coat will light. 

And you shall be a harper, brother, 

Out of the North country, 
And I'll be your boy so fain of sight, 

And bear your harp by your knee. 

And you shall be the best harper 

That ever took harp in hand, 
And I will be the best singer 

That ever sung in this land. 

It shall be written in our foreheads 

All and in gramarye, 
That we two are the boldest men 

That are in all Christenty. 

And thus they renisht them to ride 

On two good renisht steeds, 
And when they came to King Adland's hall, 

Of red gold shone their weeds. 

And when they came to King Adland's hall, 

Untill the fair hall gate, 
There they found a proud porter 

Rearing himself thereat. 

Says, Christ thee save ! thou proud porter ; 

Says, Christ thee save and see ! 
Now you be welcome, said the porter, 

Of what land soever ye be. 



32 



KING ESTMERE. 

We been * harpers, said Adler youngs 
Come out of the North country ; 

We been come hither until this place, 
This proud wedding for to see. 

Said, and your colour were white and red r 

As it is black and brown, 
I would say, King Estmere and his brother 

Were coming untill this town. 

Then they pulled out a ring of gold, 

Laid it on the porter's arm, 
And ever we will thee, proud porter, 

Thou wilt say us no harm. 

Sore he looked on King Estmere, 

And sore he handled the ring ; 
Then opened to them the fair hall-gates. 

He let for no kind of thing. 

King Estmere he stabled his steed 

So fair at the hall board ; 
The froth that came from his bridle bit, 

Light on King Bremor's beard, f 

Says, stable thy steed, thou proud harper 3 

Says, stable him in the stall ; 
It doth not beseem a proud harper, 

To stable him in a king's hall. 

My lad he is so lither, he said, 
He will do nought that's meet? 

And is there any man in this hall 
Were able him to beat. 



* Are. 

t Strange as this passage may seem, it is not inconsistent with the manners 
of that age, a relic of which Dr. Percy says, is preserved in the King's cham- 
pion riding into Westminster Hall at the coronation. The spacious halls of 
Eltham Palace, Caernarvon Castle, &c, with many others remaining, afforded 
ample scope for the entry of a body of equestrians. 



KING ESTMERE. 



33 



Thou speakest proud words, says the King of Spain, 

Thou harper here, to me ; 
There is a man within this hall 

Will beat thy lad and thee. 

O, let that man come down, he said, 

A sight of him would I see : 
And when he hath beaten well my lad, 

Then he shall beat me. 

Down then came the Kemperye man, 

And looked him in the ear : 
For all the gold that was under heaven, 

He durst not nye him near. 

And how now, Kempe, said the King of Spain, 

And now, what aileth thee ? 
He says, it is writ in his forehead, 

All and in gramarye, 
That for all the gold that is under heaven, 

I dare not nye him nigh. 

Then King Estmere pulled forth his harp. 

And played a pretty thing : 
The lady upstarted from the board, 

And would have gone from the king. 

Stay thy harp, thou proud harper, 

For God's love, I pray thee ; 
For and thou playest as thou began, 

Thou'lt till* my bride from me. 

He struck upon his harp again, 

And played a pretty thing ; 
The lady laughed a loud laughter, 

As she sat by the king. 



* Draw till, or to you, — entice away. 

c 2 






34 



KING ESTMERE. 

Says, sell me this harp, thou proud harper, 

And thy strings all ; 
For as many gold nohles thou shalt have 

As here be rings in the hall. 

What would you do with my harp, he said, 

If I did sell it ye ? 
To play my wife and me a fitt, f 

When abed together we be. 

Now sell me, quoth he, thy bride so gay, 

As she sits by thy knee, 
And as many gold nobles I will give 

As leaves been on a tree. 

And what would ye do with my bride so gay , 

If I did sell her thee ? 
More seemly it is for her fair body 

To lie by me than thee. 

He played again both loud and shrill, 

And Adler he did sing, 
O lady ! this is thy own true love, 

No harper, but a king. 

O lady ! this is thy own true love, 

As plainly thou mayst see : 
And I'll rid thee of that foul paynim, 

Who parts thy love and thee. 

The lady looked, the lady blushed, 
And blushed and looked again, 

While Adler he hath drawn his brand, 
And hath the Sowdan slain. 

Up then rose the Kemperye men, 
And loud they 'gan to cry, 

* A piece of music. 



KING ESTMERE. 

Ah ! traitors, ye have slain our king, 
And therefore ye shall die. 

King Estmere threw the harp aside, 

And swith* he drew his brand, 
And Estmere he, and Adler young, 

Right stiff in stour can stand. 

And aye their swords so sore can bite, 

Through help of gramarye, 
That soon they have slain the Kemperye men, 

Or forced them forth to flee. 

King Estmere took that fair lady, 

And married to his wife, 
And brought her home to merry England, 

With her to lead his life. 



35 



Quickly, immediately. 



SIR CAULINE. 



An old romantic legend, of which the copy in Dr. Percy's manu- 
script being inaccurate in many places, and having the appearance 
of being transcribed very faultily, he has added several stanzas, and 
completed it in a style answerable, in his judgment, to the original 
intent. Mr. Wordsworth has passed a high encomium on this, 
amongst other of Dr. Percy's works. — See his Supplementary Essay. 



In Ireland, far over the sea, 

There dwelleth a bonny King ; 
And with him a young and comely knight, 

Men call him Sir Cauline. 

The king had a lady to his daughter, 

In fashion she had no peer, 
And princely wights that lady wooed 

To be their wedded feere.* 

Sir Cauline loveth her best of all, 

But nothing durst he say, 
Nor descreeve f his counsel to no man, 

But dearly he loved this may. % 

Till in a day it so befell, 

Great dill to him was dight, § 
The maiden's love removed his mind, 

To care-bed went the knight. 

Mate,— consort, t Describe, unfold. J Maiden. § Grief was laid on him. 



37 



SIR CAULINE. 

One while he spread his arms him fro', 
One while he spread them nigh — 

And ah ! but I win that lady's love, 
For dole now I must die. 

And when our parish Mass was done, 
Our king was bowne * to dine, 

He says, Where is Sir Cauline, 
That is wont to serve the wine ? 

Then answered him a courteous knight, 
And fast his hands 'gan wring, 

Sir Cauline is sick, and like to die, 
Without a good leeching. 

Fetch me down my daughter dear, 

She is a leech f full fine, 
Go take him dough, and the baken bread, 
And serve him with the wine so red, 

Loth I were him to tine. J 

Fair Christabelle to his chamber goes, 
Her maidens following nigh, — 

O well, she saith, how doth my lord I 
O sick, thou fair lady ! 



* Ready. 

t Physician ; — leecliinge, any medicinal or surgical application. This ex- 
pression is of universal occurrence in ancient writings, both prose and verse . 
It was a practice, derived from the Gothic and Celtic nations, for ladies even 
of the highest rank, to understand some principles of medicine and surgery, 
and especially to be prepared with ligaments, balms, and unguents, for the 
purpose of staunching and healing the wounds of their knights, or husbands. 
It is mentioned, says Dr. Percy, even so late as the time of Queen Elizabeth, 
among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the " eldest of 
them are skilled in surgery." Many examples of this kind might be adduced 
from ancient romances and poems. See an interesting scene in Tasso, (Canto 
xix.), where the amiable Princess Erminia heals the wounds of her lover, 
Tancrcd. 

\ Lose. 



38 



SIR CAULINE. 



Now rise up wightly, man, for shame, 

Never lye so cowardly, 
For it is told in my father's hall, 

You dye for love of me. 

Fair lady, it is for your love 

That all this dill I drye,* 
For if you would comfort me with a kiss, 
Then were I brought from bale to bliss, 

No longer would I lye. 

Sir knight, my father is a king, 

I am his only heir: 
Alas ! and well you know, sir knight, 

I never can be your feere. 

O lady, thou art a king's daughter, 

And I am not thy peer, 
But let me do some deeds of arms, 

To be your Bacheleere. f 

Some deeds of arms if thou wilt do, 

My Bacheleere to be, 
But ever and aye my heart would rue 

GiffJ harm should hap to thee. 

Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorn 

Upon the moors brodinge, § 
And dare ye, sir knight, wake there all night, 

Until the fair morning ? 

For the Eldridge || knight, so mickle of might, 

Will examine you beforne, 
And never man bare life away, 

But he did him scath and scorn. 

* Suffer. t Betrothed knight,— acknowledged lover. 

X If. § Pricking.— Dr. Percy. He has given no derivation. 

|| When applied to men, it signifies wild, hideous, &c; places,— gloomy, 
lonesome, haunted. 



SIR CAULINE. 



39 



That knight he is a foul paynim, 

And large of limb and bone, 
And but if heaven may be thy speed, 

Thy life it is but gone. 

Now on the Eldridge hills I'll walk,* 

For thy sake, fair lady, 
And I'll either bring you a ready token, 

Or I'll never more you see. 

The lady is gone to her own chamber, 

Her maidens following bright, 
Sir Cauline leaped from care-bed soon, 
And to the Eldridge hills is gone, 

For to wake there all night. 

Unto midnight, that the moon did rise, 

He walked up and down, 
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blow, 

Over the bents so brown ; 
Quoth he, if cryance f come to my heart, 

I am far from any good town. 

And soon he spied on the moors so broad. 

A furious wight, and fell ; 
A lady bright his bridle led, 

Clad in a fair kirtle. 

And so fast he called on Sir Cauline, 

man ! I rede thee fly, 

For, but if cryance comes to my heart, 

1 ween but thou may die. 

He saith, no cryance comes to my heart, 
Nor, in faith, I will not flee, 

* Or wake, i. e. watch all night. 

i Here it seems to signify fear, from crainti; — in other places, belief, from 
ereance. — Dr, P. 



40 



SIR CAULINE. 



For, cause thou minged * not Christ before, 
The less me dreadeth thee. 

The Eldridge knight he pricked his steed ; 

Sir Cauline bold abode, 
Then either shook his trusty spear, 

And the timber these two children f bare 

So soon in sunder slode. J 

Then took they out their two good swords, 

And layden on full fast, 
Till helm and hawberk, mail and shield, 

They all were well-nigh brast. 

The Eldridge knight was mickle of might, 

And stiff in stower § did stand, 
But Sir Cauline, with a backward stroke, 

He smote off his right hand ; 
That soon he with pain and lack of blood, 

Fell down on that lay-land. 

Then up Sir Cauline lift his brand, 

All over his head so high : 
And here I swear by the holy rood, 

Now, caitiff, thou shalt die ! 

Then up and came that lady bright, 

Fast wringing of her hand, 
For the maiden's love that most you love, 

Withhold that deadly brand. 

For the maiden's love that most you love, 

Now smite no more I pray, 
And aye whatever thou wilt my lord, 

He shall thy hests obey. 

Now swear to me, thou Eldridge knight, 
And here on this lay-land, 
Mentioned. + Knights. % Split. § Steady in the conflict. 



SIR CAULINE. 

That thou wilt believe on Christ his lay, 
And thereto plight thy hand. 

And thou never more on Eldridge come 

To sport, gamon, * or play, 
And that thou here give up thy arms 

Until thy dying day. 

The Eldridge knight gave up his arms 
With many a sorrowful sigh, 

And sware to obey Sir Cauline's best 
Till the time that he should die. 

And he then up, and the Eldridge knight 

Set him in his saddle anon, 
And the Eldridge knight and his lady 

To their castle are they gone. 

Then he took up the bloody hand 

That was so large of bone, 
And on it he found five rings of gold 

Of knights that had he slone. 

Then he took up the Eldridge sword, 

As hard as any flint, 
And he took off those rings five, 

As bright as fire and brent, f 

Home then pricked Sir Cauline, 

As light as leaf on tree, 
I wis he neither stint nor blanne % 

Till he his lady see. 

Then down he knelt upon his knee 

Before that lady gay, 
O lady ! I have been on the Eldridge hills, 

These tokens I bring away. 

* Or gamen, an old word for any sport or game. 
t i. e. Burnt, flame-colour, rubies or topazes. 
t Stayed. 



41 



42 



SIR CAULINE. 

Now welcome, welcome ! Sir Cauline, 

Thrice welcome unto me ! 
For now I perceive thou art a true knight, 

Of valour bold and free. 

O lady ! I am thy own true knight, 

Thy hests for to obey, 
And might I hope to win thy love, — 

No more his tongue could say. 

The lady blushed scarlet red, 

And fetched a gentle sigh, 
Alas ! sir knight, how may this be, 

For my degree 's so high ? 

But sith thou has hight,* thou comely youth, 

To be my Batchelere, 
I'll promise, if thee I may not wed, 

I will have none other feere. 

Then she held forth her lily white hand 

To that knight so free ; 
He gave to it one gentle kiss — 

His heart was brought from bale to bliss, 
The tears start from his eye. 

But keep my counsel, Sir Cauline, 

Nor let no man it know, 
For and ever my father should it ken, 

I wot he would us sloe.f 

From that day forth that lady fair 

Loved Sir Cauline the knight, 
From that day forth he only joyed 

When she was in his sight. 

Yea, and oftentimes they met 

Within a fair arbour, 
Where they in love and sweet dalliance, 

Past many a pleasant hour. 

* Said, or determined. + Slay. 



SIR CAULINE. 



PART II. 



Every white will have its black, 

And every sweet its sour : 
This found the Lady Christabelle, 

In an untimely hour. 

For so it befell, as Sir Cauline 

Was with that lady fair, 
The king her father walked forth 

To take the evening air. 

And into the arbour as he went, 

To rest his weary feet, 
He found his daughter and Sir Cauline 

There set in dalliance sweet. 

The king he started forth, I wis, 
And an angry man was he 5 

Now, traitor ! thou shalt hang or draw, 
And rue shall thy lady. 

Then forth Sir Cauline he was led, 
And thrown in dungeon deep ; 

And the lady into a tower so high, 
There left to wail and weep. 

The queen she was Sir Cauline 's friend, 
And to the king said she, — 

I pray you save Sir Cauline's life, 
And let him banished be. 



44 



SIR CAULINE. 

Now, dame, that traitor should be sent 

Across the salt sea foam : 
But here I will make thee a band — 
If ever he come within this land, 

A foul death is his doom. 

All woe-begone was that gentle knight, 

To part from his lady : 
And many time he sighed sore, 

And cast a wistful eye, — 
Fair Christabelle, from thee to part, 

Far lever * had I die ! 

Fair Christabelle, that lady bright, 

Was had forth of the tower : 
But ever she droopeth in her mind, 
As nipped by an ungentle wind, 

Doth some fair lily flower. 

And ever she doth lament and weep, 

To tint f her lover so : 
Sir Cauline, thou little think'st on me, 

But I will still be true. 

Many a king, and many a duke, 

And lord of high degree, 
Did sue to that fair lady, of love, 

But never she would them nee. J 

When many a day was passed and gone, 

No comfort she could find : 
The king proclaimed a Tournament, 

To cheer his daughter's mind. 

And there came lords, and there came knights 

From many a far country, 
To break a spear for their lady's love, 

Before that fair lady. 

* Rather. t Lose. j Approach. 



SIR CAUL INC. 



45 



And many a lady there was set 

In purple and in pall : * 
But fair Christabelle so woe begone, 

Was the fairest of them all. 

Then many a knight was mickle of might, 

Before his lady gay : 
But a Stranger wight, whom no man knew, 

He won the prize each day. 

His acton f it was all of black, 

His hewberke, % and his shield ; 
Nor no man wist whence he did come, 
Nor no man knew where he had gone, 

When they came from the field. 

And now three days were prestly past 

In feats of chivalry, 
When lo ! upon the fourth morning, 

A sorrowful sight they see. 

A hughv giant stiff and stark, 

All foul of limb and lear, 
Too goggling even, like fire farden, 

A mouth from ear to ear. 

Before him came a dwarf full low. 

That waited at his knee ; 
And at Iris back five heads he bore. 

All wan and pale of blee. § 

* From pallium, Lat. — any cloak or robe, of velvet, or other rich stuff. 

+ A quilted vest of taffety, worn under the armour, to protect the body 
from bruises; but sometimes it is taken for the armour itself: its proper title 
is acquetoun, or hocquetou. 

I A coat of armour, composed of an infinite number of small chains or 
rings, so close as to be impervious to the point of a weapon: chain-mail. 

? Complexion. 



46 



SIR CAULINE. 



Sir, quoth the dwarf, and louted low, 

Behold that hend Soldain,* — 
Behold these heads I bear with me, 

They are kings which he hath slain. 

The Eldridge knight, is his own cousin, 
Whom a knight of thine hath shent, 

And he is come to avenge his wrong, 

And to thee, all thy knights among, 
Defiance here hath sent. 

But yet he will appease his wrath, 

Thy daughter's love to win, 
And, but thou yield him that fair maid, 

Thy halls and towers must brenne. f 

Thy head, Sir King, must go with me, 

Or else thy daughter dear, 
Or else within these lists so broad, 

Thou must find him a peer. % 

The king he turned him round about, 

And in his heart was woe : 
Is there never a knight of my round table, § 

This matter will undergo? 

Is there never a knight amongst ye all, 

Will fight for my daughter and me ? 
Whoever will fight yon grim Soldan, 

Right fair his meed shall be. 

* Soldan, or sondain, a corruption of sultan. — Hend, according to Dr. Percy, 
is kind, or gentle. 

t Burn. 

j An equal champion. — Par, Lat. 

§ The title of round table was not confined to the time of King Arthur, 
but was often applied to lists and tournaments : it is said, in these later in- 
stances, to have been derived from the circular form of the enclosed ground. 



SIR CAULINE. 

For he shall have my broad lay lands, 

And of my crown be heir, 
And. he shall win fair Christabelle 

To be his wedded feere. 

But every knight of his round table 

Did stand both still and pale, 
For whenever they looked on the grim Soldan, 

It made their hearts to quail. 

All woe-begone was that fair lady, 
When she saw no help was nigh ; 

She cast her thought on her own true love, 
And the tears gushed from her eye. 

Up then starts the Stranger knight, 

Said, Lady be not afraid, 
I'll fight for thee with this grim Soldan, 

Tho' he be unmackly* made. 

And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sword 

That lieth within thy bower, 
I trust in Christ for to slay this fiend, 

Tho' he be stiff in stower. 

Go fetch him down the Eldridge sword, 

The king, he cried, with speed ; 
Now Heaven assist thee, courteous knight ! 

My daughter is thy meed. 

The giant he stepped into the lists, 

And said, Away ! away ! 
I swear, as I am the hend Soldan, 

Thou lettest f me here all day. 

Then forth the Stranger knight he came, 
In his black armour dight; 

* Misshapen. t Hinderest. 



47 



48 



SIR CAULINE. 

The lady sighed a gentle sigh, 

" That this were my true knight!" 

And now the giant and knight be met 

Within the lists so broad, 
And now with swords so sharp of steel 

They 'gan to lay on load. 

The Soldan struck the knight a stroke 

That made him reel aside ; 
Then woe-begone was that fair lady, 

And thrice she deeply sighed. 

The Soldan struck a second stroke, 

And made the blood to flow ; 
All pale and wan was that lady fair, 

And thrice she wept for woe. 

The Soldan struck a third fell stroke, 
Which brought the knight on his knee ; 

Sad sorrow pierced that lady's heart, 
And she shrieked loud shriekings three. 

The knight he leapt upon his feet, 

All reckless of the pain ; 
Quoth he, But Heaven be now my speed, 

Or else I shall be slain ! 

He grasped his sword with main and might, 

And spying a secret part, 
He drave it into the Soldan's side, 

And pierced him to the heart. 

Then all the people gave a shout 
When they saw the Soldan fall; 

The lady wept, and thanked Christ, 
That had rescued her from thrall. 

And now the king with all his barons, 
Rose up from off his seat, 



SIR CAULINE. 

And down he stepped into the lists, 
That courteous knight to greet. 

And he for pain and lack of blood 

Was fallen into a swoond, 
And there all weltering in his gore, 

Lay lifeless on the ground. 

Come down, come down, my daughter dear ! 

Thou art a leech of skill, 
Far lever * had I lose half my lands 

Than this good knight should spill. 

Down then steppeth that fair lady, 

To help him if she may ; 
But when she did his heaver raise, 
It is my life ! my lord ! she says ; 

And shrieked and swooned away. 

Sir Cauline just lift up his eyes, 

When he heard his lady cry, 
O lady ! I am thine own true love, 

For thee I wished to die. 

Then giving her one parting look, 

He closed his eyes in death, 
Ere Christabelle, that lady mild, 

Began to draw her breath. 

But when she found her comely knight 

Indeed was dead and gone, 
She laid her own pale cheek to his, 

And thus she made her moan. 

O stay, my dear and only lord. 

For me, thy faithful feere : 
'Tis meet that I should follow thee, 

Who hast bought my love so dear. 

* Rather. 
D 



49 



50 



SIR CAULINE, 



Then fainting in a deadly swoon, 
And with a deep-fetched sigh, 

That burst her gentle heart in twain, 
Fair Christabelle did die, 



SIR ALDINGAR. 



In Sir Walter Scott's "Border Minstrelsy," is a ballad some- 
what similar, in design, to the present, bearing the title of Sir 
Rodingham. Dr. Percy has given to this some conjectural emenda- 
tions, and also supplemental stanzas. 



Our King he kept a false steward, 

Sir Aldingar they him call ; 
A falser steward than he was one, 

Served not in bower nor hall. 

He would have lain by our comely Queen, 

Her dear worship to betray : 
Our queen she was a good woman, 

And evermore said him nay. 

Sir Aldingar was wroth in his mind, — 
With her he was never content, 

Till traitorous means he could devise 
In a fire to have her brent. 

There came a Lazar to the king's gate, — 

A lazar both blind and lame, 
He took the lazar upon his back, — 

Him on the queen's bed has lain. 



52 



SIR ALDINGAR. 

Lie still, lazar, where as thou liest, — 

Look thou go not hence away ; 
I'll make thee a whole man and a sound, 

In two hours of the day.* 

Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, 

And hied him to our king : 
If I might have grace, as I have space, 

Sad tidings I could bring. 

Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, — 

Say on the sooth to me. 
Our queen hath chosen a new, new love, 

And she will have none of thee. 

If she had chosen a right good knight, 

The less had been her shame ; 
But she hath chose her a lazar-man, — 

A lazar both blind and lame. 

If this be true, thou Aldingar, 

The tidings thou tellest to me, 
Then will I make thee a rich, rich knight, — 

Rich both of gold and fee. 

But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, — 

As God now grant it be ! — 
Thy body, I swear by the holy rood, 

Shall hang on the gallows tree. 

He brought our king to the queen's chamber, 

And opened to him the door. 
" A lodlye f love," King Harry says, 

For our queen, dame Elinore. 

* Probably alluding to the supposed virtue of the royal touch. 
t Loathsome. 



SIR ALDINGAR. 

If thou wert a man, as thou art none, 

Here on my sword thou'st die ; 
But a pair of new gallows shall be built, 

And there shalt thou hang on high. 

Forth then hied our king, I wis, 

And an angry man was he ; 
And soon he found Queen Elinore, 

That bride so bright of blee. 

Now God you save, our queen, madam, 

And Christ you save and see ! 
Here you have chosen a new, new love, 

And you will have none of me. 

If you had chosen a right good knight, 

The less had been your shame ; 
But you have chose you a lazar-man, — 

A lazar both blind and lame. 

Therefore a fire there shall be built, 

And brent all shalt thou be. 
Now out, alack ! said our comely queen, 

Sir Aldingar's false to me. 

Now out, alack ! said our comely queen, 

My heart with grief will brast ; 
I had thought swevens * had never been true : 

I have proved them true at last. 

I dreamt in my sweven, on Thursday eve, 

In my bed whereas I lay, 
I dreamt a grype f and a grimly beast 

Had carried my crown away. 

* Dreams. 

t Grype— griffin, a fabulous beast, with wings. 



53 



54 



SIR ALDINGAR. 

My gorget, and my kirtle of gold, 

And all my fair head-gear ; 
And he would worry me with his tush, 

And to his nest y' hear. 

Saving, there came a little grey hawk, — 

A Merlin him they call, — 
Which unto the ground did strike the grype, 

That dead he down did fall. 

GifF I were a man, as now I am none, 

A battle would I prove, 
To fight with that traitor, Aldingar, — 

At him I cast my glove. 

But seeing I'm able no battle to make, 

My liege, grant me a knight, 
To fight with that traitor, Sir Aldingar, 

To maintain me in my right. 

Now forty days I will give thee, 

To seek thee a knight therein ; 
If thou find not a knight in forty days, 

Thy body it must brenn. 

Then she sent east, and she sent west, 

By north and south bedeen ; * 
But never a champion could she find 

Would fight with that knight so keen. 

Now twenty days were spent and gone, 

No help there might be had ; 
Many a tear shed our comely queen, 

And aye her heart was sad. 

Then came one of the queen's damsels, 

And knelt upon her knee ; 
Cheer up, cheer up, my gracious dame, 

I trust yet help may be. 
* Both. 



SIR ALDINGAR. 

And here I will make mine avow, 

And with the same me bind, 
That never will I return to thee, 

Till I some help may find. 

Then forth she rode on a fair palfrey, 

O'er hill and dale about ; 
But never a champion could she find, 

Would fight with that knight so stout. 

And now the day drew on apace, 
When our good queen must die, — 

All woe-begone was that fair damsel, 
When she found no help was nigh. 

All woe-begone was that fair damsel, 
And the salt tears fell from her eye, 

When lo ! as she rode by a river side, 
She met with a tiny Boy. 

A tiny Boy she met, God wot! 

All clad in mantle of gold, 
He seemed no more in man's likeness, 

Than a child of four year old. 

Why grieve you, damsel fair, he said, 
And what does cause you moan ? 

The damsel scant would deign a look, 
But fast she pricked on. 

Yet turn again — thou fair damsel, 
And greet thy queen from me, 

When bale * is at highest, boot is nighest, 
Now help enough may be. 

Evil ;— boot, help. Both from the Saxon. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 
Emits a brighter ray. 



55 



Goldsmith. 



66 



SIR ALDINGAR. 

Bid her remember what she dreamt, 

In her bed where as she lay ; 
How, when the grype and the grimly beast. 

Would have carried her crown away, 

Even then, there came the little grey hawk, 

And saved her from his claws ,• 
Then bid the queen be merry at heart, 

For heaven will 'fend her cause. 

Back then rede that fair damsel, 
And her heart it leapt for glee ; 

And when she told her gracious dame, 
A glad woman then was she. 

But when the appointed day was come, 

No help appeared nigh, 
Then woeful, woeful, was her heart, 

And the tears stood in her eye. 

And now a fire was built of wood, 

And a stake was made of tree, 
And now queen Elinore forth was led, 

A sorrowful sight to see ! 

No knight stood forth, no knight there came, 

No help appeared nigh ; 
And now the fire was lighted up, 

Queen Elinore she must die. 

Three times the Herald he waved his hand, 
And three times spake on high, — 

GifF any good knight will 'fend this dame, 
Come forth, or she must die ! 

And now the fire was lighted up, 

As hot as hot might be ; 
When riding upon a little white steed, 

The tiny Boy they see. 



57 



SIR ALDINGAR. 

Away with that stake ! away with those brands ! 

And loose our comely queen ! 
I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, 

And prove him a traitor keen. 

Forth then stood Sir Aldingar ; 

But when he saw the child, 
He laughed and scoffed, and turned his back, 

And weened he had been beguiled. 

Now turn, now turn thee, Aldingar, 

And either fight or flee ; 
I trust that I shall avenge the wrong, 

Though I am so small to see. 

The boy pulled forth a well good sword, 

So gilt it dazzled the ee, * 
The first stroke stricken at Aldingar, 

Smote off his legs by the knee. 

Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor, 

And fight upon thy feet, 
For, an' thou thrive as thou beginn'st, 

Of height we shall be meet. 

A priest ! a priest ! says Aldingar, 

While I am a man alive ; 
A priest ! a priest ! says Aldingar, 

Me for to houzle f and shrive. 

I would have lain by our comely queen, 

But she would never consent ; 
Then I thought to betray her unto our king, 

In a fire to have her brent 



* Ee — eyen — or eyn, the ancient plural of eye. 

* Administer the Eucharist, or extreme unction : from the Saxon, ftusl. 
To shrive — confess. 

D 2 



58 



SIR ALDINGAR. 

There came a lazar to the king's gates, 
A lazar both blind and lame, — 

I took the lazar upon my back, 
And on her bed had him lain. 

Then ran I to our comely king, 

These tidings sore to tell — 
But ever alack ! says Aldingar, 

Falsing never does well. 

Forgive, forgive me, queen, madam, 
The short time I must live ; — 

Now Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, 
As freely I forgive. 

Here take thy queen, our King Harry, 

And love her as thy life, 
For never had a king in Christenty, 

A truer and a fairer wife. 

King Henry ran to clasp his queen, 

And loosed her full soon ; 
Then turned to look for the tiny Boy, 

— The Boy was vanished and gone ! 

But first he had touched the lazar-man, 
And stroaked him with his hand ; 

The lazar under the gallows tree, 
All whole and sound did stand. 

The lazar under the gallows tree 
Was comely, straight, and tall ; 

King Henry made him his head steward, 
To wait within his hall. 



Percy. 



THE 

MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 



The original of this story is supposed to be as old as the beginning 
of the fourteenth century, and to have supplied Chaucer with a theme 
for one of his tales — " The Wife's Tale." As it stands here, it 
contains all the amendments and supplementary stanzas by Dr. 
Percy ; every alternate leaf, containing nine stanzas, being wanting 
in his folio MS. As a general answer, however, to all the charges 
against him, he has printed the old fragment literally and exactly at 
the end of his first volume, " that such austere antiquaries as com- 
plain that the ancient copies have not been always rigidly adhered 
to, may see how unfit for publication many of the pieces would have 
been, if all the blunders, corruptions, and nonsense of illiterate 
reciters and transcribers had been superstitiously retained, without 
some attempt to correct and amend them." It should be added, 
that on a comparison of the two, there is as little difference as could 
be expected or wished. 



King Arthur lives in merry Carlile, 

And seemly is to see, 
And there with him Queen Guenever, 

That bride so bright of blee. 

And there with him Queen Guenever, 
That bride so bright in bower, 

And all his barons about him stood, 
That were both stiff and stower. 



60 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

The king a royal Christmass kept, 
With mirth and princely cheer ; 

To him repaired many a knight, 
That came both far and near. 

And when they were to dinner set, 
And cups went freely round, 

Before them came a fair damsel, 
And knelt upon the ground. 

A boon ! a boon ! O King Arthur ! 

I beg a boon of thee — 
Avenge me of a carlish knight, 

Who hath shent my love and me. 

At Tearn-Wadling * his castle stands, 

Near to that lake so fair, 
And proudly rise the battlements, 

And streamers deck the air. 

No gentle knight, nor lady gay, 

May pass that castle wall, 
But from that foul discourteous knight 

Mishap will them befall. 

He 's twice the size of common men, 
With thews and sinews strong ! 

And on his back he bears a club, 
That is both thick and long. 

This grim baron 'twas our hard hap 

But yester morn to see, 
When to his bower he bare my love, 

And sore misused me. 



* Team (i. e. lake) Wadling is a small lake, near Hesketh in Cumberland, 
on the road from Penrith to Carlisle. It is reported that the remains of an 
old castle, near the lake, were visible at no remote period.— Dr. Percy. 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

And when I told him, King Arthur 

As little should him spare — 
Go tell, said he, that cuckold king 

To meet me if he dare. 

Up then started King Arthur, 

And sware by hill and dale, 
He never would quit that grim baron 

Till he had made him quail. 

Go fetch my sword Excalibar ! 

Go saddle me my steed — 
Now, by my faith, that grim baron 

Shall rue this ruthful deed. 

And when he came to Tearn-Wadling, 

Beneath the castle wall, — 
Come forth ! come forth ! thou proud baron, 

Or yield thyself my thrall. 

On magic ground that castle stood, 
And fenced with many a spell ; 

No valiant knight could tread thereon, 
But strait, his courage fell. 

Forth then rushed that carlish knight — 

King Arthur felt the charm ; 
His sturdy sinews lost their strength, 

Down sunk his feeble arm. 

Now yield thee ! yield thee ! King Arthur — 

Now yield thee unto me ; 
Or fight with me, or lose thy land, 

No better terms may be. 

Unless thou swear upon the Rood, 

And promise on thy faye, 
Here to return to Tearn-Wadling, 

Upon the New Year's day. 



61 



62 THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

And bring me word what thing it is 

All women most desire — 
This is thy ransom, Arthur, — he says, . 

I'll have no other hire. 

King Arthur then held up his hand, 

And sware upon his faye ; 
Then took his leave of the grim baron, 

And fast he rode away. 

And he rode east, and he rode west, 

And did of all inquire, 
What thing it is all women crave, 

And what they most desire. 

Some told him riches, pomp, or state — 

Some raiment fine and bright, — 
Some told him mirth, some flattery, — 

And some a gallant knight. 

In letters all King Arthur wrote, 

And sealed them with his ring, 
But still his mind was held in doubt — 

Each told a different thing. 

As ruthful he rode over a moor, 

He saw a lady sit, 
Between an oak and a green holly, 

All clad in red scarlet.* 

Her nose was crooked and turned outward, 
Her chin stood all awry, 

* " This was a common phrase in our old writers. So Chaucer, — 
* Her hosen were of fyne scarlet red.' " 

Dr. Percy. 

It is not improbable that scarlet might have been originally the name of a 
stuff, and afterwards come to be considered as a particular colour. Such 
was undoubtedly the case with crimson, or crimosin, as we read of purple 
and white crimson. 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 63 

And where as should have been her mouth, 
Lo ! there was set her eye. 

Her hair, like serpents, clung about 

Her cheeks of deadly hue ; 
A worse-formed lady than she was 

No man mote ever view. 

To hail the king in seemly sort, 

This lady was full fain ; 
But King Arthur, all amazed, 

No answer made again. 

What wight art thou, the lady said, 

That wilt not speak to me ? 
Sir, I may chance to ease thy pain, 

Though I be foul to see. 

If thou wilt ease my pain he said, 

And help me in my need, 
Ask what thou wilt, thou grim lady ! 

And it shall be thy meed. 

O swear me this upon the rood, 

And promise on thy faye, 
And here the secret I will tell, 

That shall thy ransom pay. 

King Arthur promised on his faith, 

And sware upon the rood — 
The secret then the lady told, 

As lightly well she could. 

Now this shall be my pay, Sir King, 

And this my guerdon be, 
That some young fair and courtly knight 

Thou bring to marry me. 

Fast then pricked King Arthur, 
O'er hill, and dale, and down, 



64 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

And soon he found the baron's bower, 
And soon the grim baron. 

He bare his club upon his back, 
He stood both stiff and strong, 

And, when he had the letters read, 
Away the letters flung. 

Now yield thee Arthur, and thy lands 

All forfeit unto me, 
For this is not thy pay, sir king, 

Nor may thy ransom be. 

Yet hold thy hand, thou proud baron, 

I pray thee hold thy hand, 
And give me leave to speak once more, 

In rescue of my land. 

This morn, as I came o'er a moor, 

I saw a lady sit, 
Between an oak, and a green holly, 

All clad in red scarlet. 

She says, All women will have their will- 

This is their chief desire : 
Now yield, as thou art a baron true, 

That I have paid mine hire. 

An early vengeance light on her, 

The carlish baron swore, 
She was my sister told thee this, 

And she 's a misshapen w — e. 

But here I will make mine avow, 

To do her as ill a turn, — 
For ever I may that foul thief get, 

In a fire I will her burn. 



THE 

MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE 



PART II. 



Homeward pricked King Arthur, 

And a weary man was he ; 
And soon he met Queen Guenever, 

That bride so bright of blee. 

What news ! what news ! thou noble king ! 

How, Arthur, hast thou sped ? 
Where hast thou himg the carlish knight ? 

And where bestowed Iris head ? 

The carlish knight is safe for me, 

And free from mortal harm : 
On magic ground his castle stands, 

And fenced with many a charm. 

To bow to him I was full fain, 

And yield me to his hand ; 
And but for a loathly lady, there 

I should have lost my land. 

And now this fills my heart with woe, 

And sorrow of my life, — 
I swore, a young and courtly knight 

Should marry her to his wife. 



66 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

Then bespake him Sir Gawaine, 

That was ever a gentle knight : 
That loathly lady I will wed, 

Therefore be merry and light. 

Now nay, now nay, good Sir Gawaine, 

My sister's son ye be ; 
This loathly lady 's all too grim, 

And all too foul for ye. 

Her nose is crooked, and turned outward, 

Her chin stands all awry ; 
A worse-formed lady than she is, 

Was never seen with eye. 

What though her chin stand all awry, 

And she be foul to see ; 
I'll marry her, uncle, for thy sake, 

And I'll thy ransom be ! 

Now thanks, now thanks, good Sir Gawaine, 

And a blessing thee betide ; 
To-morrow we'll have knights and squires, 

And we'll go fetch the bride. 

And we'll have hawks, and we'll have hounds, 

To cover our intent ; 
And we'll away to the green forest, 



Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bold, 
They rode with them that day ; 

And foremost of the company, 
There rode the steward Kay. 

So did Sir Banier and Sir Bore, 
And eke Sir Garratt keen ; 

Sir Tristram too, that gentle knight, 
To the forest fresh and green. 



67 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

And when they came to the green forest, 

Beneath a fair holly-tree, 
There sat that lady in red scarlet, 

That unseemly was to see. 

Sir Kay beheld that lady's face, 

And looked upon her sweere : * 
Whoever kisses that lady, he says, 

Of his kiss he stands in fear. 

Sir Kay beheld that lady again, 

And looked upon her snout : 
Whoever kisses that lady, he says, 

Of his kiss he stands in doubt. 

Peace! brother Kay, said Sir Gawaine, 

And amend thee of thy life ; 
For there is a knight, among us all, 

Must marry her to his wife. 

Marry I 'faith, then said Sir Kay, 

I' the devil's name anon ; 
Get me a wife wherever I may, 

In sooth she shall be none. 

Then some took up their hawks in haste, 

And some took up their hounds, 
And said they would not marry her, 

For cities, nor for towns. 

Then bespake him King Arthur, 

And sware there by his faye, 
For a little foul sight and misliking, 

You shall not say her nay. 

Peace ! lordings, peace ! Sir Gawaine said, 
Nor make debate and strife, 

Neck— mire, in the original. The next very irreverent term is literal. 



68 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

This loathly lady I will take, 
And marry her to my wife. 

Now thanks ! now thanks ! good Sir Gawaine, 

And a blessing be thy meed, 
For as I am thine own lady, 

Thou never shall rue this deed. 

Then up they took that loathly dame, 

And home anon they bring, 
And there Sir Gawaine he her wed, 

And married her with a ring. 

And when they were in wed-bed laid, 

And all were done away, — 
Come turn to me, my own wed lord, 

Come turn to me, I pray. 

Sir Gawaine scant could lift his head, 

For sorrow and for care ; 
When lo ! instead of that loathly dame, 

He saw a young lady fair ! 

Sweet blushes stained her rud-red cheek, 

Her eyen were black as sloe, 
The ripening cherry swelled her lip, 

And all her neck was snow. 

Sir Gawaine kissed that lady fair, 

Lying upon the sheet, 
And swore, as he was a true knight, 

The spice was never so sweet. 

Sir Gawaine kissed that lady bright, 

Lying there by his side, 
The fairest flower is not so fair, 

Thou never can'st be my bride ! 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

I am thy bride, mine own dear lord ! 

The same which thou didst-know, 
That was so loathly, and was wont, 

Upon the wild moor to go. 

Now gentle Gawaine, choose, quoth she, 
And make thy choice with care, 

Whether by night, or else by day, 
Shall I be foul or fair. 



69 



My fair lady ! Sir Gawaine said, 

I yield me to thy skill, 
Because thou art mine own lady, 

Thou shalt have all thy will. 

Now blessed be thou, sweet Gawaine ! 

And the day that I thee see, 
For as thou seest me at this time, 

So shall I ever be. 

My father was an aged knight, 

And yet it chanced so, 
He took to wife a false lady, 

Which brought me to this woe. 

She witched me, being a fair young maid, 

In the green forest to dwell, 
And there to abide in loathly shape, 

Most like a fiend of hell. 

Midst moors and mosses, woods and wilds, 

To lead a lonesome life, 
Till some young, fair, and courtly knight 

Would marry me to his wife. 



70 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

Nor fully to gain my own true shape, — 
Such was her devilish skill, — 

Until he would yield to be ruled by me, 
And let me have all my will. 

She witched my brother to a carlish boor, 
And made him stiff and strong ; 

And built him a bower on magic ground, 
To live by rapine and wrong. 

But now the spell is broken through, 
And wrong is turned to right ; 

Henceforth I shall be a true Lady, 
And he be a gentle Knight ! 



[The original contains nine more stanzas, which describe 
the subsequent congratulations of the monarch and his 
courtiers]. 



Well Coz Gawaine sayes S r Kay 

thy chance is fallen arright 

for thou hast gotten one of the fairest maids 

I euer saw w th my sight 

It is my fortune said S r Gawaine 
for my Vncle Arthurs sake 
I am glad as grasse wold be of raine 
great joy that I may take 



THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. 

S 1 Gawaine took the ladye by the one arme 
S r Kay tooke her by the other 
they led her straight to K. Arthur 
as they were brother & brother 

K Arthur welcumed them there all 
& sae did lady Geneuer his queene 
w"' all the knights of the round table 
most seemly to be seene 

K Arthur beheld that ladye faire 
that was soe faire & bright 
he thanked Christ in trinity 
for S r Gawaine that gentle knight 

Soe did the knights both more and lesse 

reioiced all that day 

for the good chance y* hapened was 

to S r Gawaine & his ladye gaye Ffinis. 



71 



KING ARTHUR'S DEATH. 



This Composition, with several others, is taken from the old romance 
of Morte d' Arthur : but in this, according to Dr. Percy, are se- 
veral variations, coinciding with the traditions of the ancient Welsh 
Bards, who believed that this king was not dead, but in some secret 
and pleasant place, under the care of the fairies, from whence he 
should at some time return, to resume the sceptre of Britain : a fond 
and extravagant tradition, which obtained a very general reception, 
and is mentioned in several of the old Chronicles. " The Bretons 
supposed that he shall come yet, and conquer all Bretaigne; for 
certes, this is the prophecy of Merlin. He sayd, that his death shall 
be douteous ; and sayd sooth (i. e. truth), for men thereof yet have 
doubte, and shullen (shall) for evermore, for men wyl not whether 
that he lyveth or is dede." An old Chronicle of Gerard de Leew. 
Antwerp, 1493. — Dr. Percy. 

See also, Don Quixote, Chap. xiii. " Have you not read, sir," 
answered Don Quixote, "the Annals and Histories of England? 
wherein are recorded the famous exploits of King Arthur, whom in 
our Castilian tongue we perpetually call King Artus, of whom 
there goes an old tradition, and a common one all over that kingdom 
of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but that by magic art 
he was turned into a raven; and that, in process of time, he shall 
reign again, and recover his kingdom and sceptre : for which reason 
it cannot be proved, that from that time any Englishman hath killed 
a raven." Of this story of the raven, wherever Cervantes procured it, 
no traces are at present discoverable. A similar tradition in the 
instance of Don Sebastian King of Portugal, is actually believed by 
some of the Portuguese to the present day. He was missing after 
the battle fought at Tangiers, 1578, in which he doubtless met with 
an honorable death ; but, as in the case of King Arthur, he was 
supposed to exist corporeally, in some enchanted retreat, from 
whence he was to return, in kingly pomp and dignity, to his native 
realm. King Arthur actually died A.D. 542, after a distinguished 
reign of twenty-six years. — Ed. 



On Trinity-Monday in the morn, 
This sore battle was doomed to be, 

Where many a knight cried "Well away!' 
Alack ! it was the more pity. 



KING ARTHUR S DEATH. 

Ere the first crowing of the cock, 
When as the king in his bed lay, 

He thought Sir Gawaine * to him came, 
And there to him these words did say. 

Now as you are mine uncle dear, 
And as you prize your life this day, 

O meet not with your foe in fight — 
Put off the battle, if you may. 

For Sir Lancelot is now in France, 
And with him many a hardy knigh 

Who will within this month be back, 
And will assist ye in the fight. 

The king then called his nobles all, 

Before the breaking of the day, 
And told them how Sir Gawaine came, 

And there to him these words did say. 

His nobles all this counsel gave, 

That, early in the morning, he 
Should send away an herald at arms, 

To ask a parley fair and free. 

Then twelve good knights King Arthur chose, 
The best of all that with him were, 

To parley with the foe in the field, 
And make with him agreement fair. 

The king he charged all his host, 

In readiness there for to be ; 
But no man should his weapon stir, 

Unless a sword drawn they should see. 

And Mordred on the other part, 

Twelve of his knights did likewise bring, 

* Sir Gawaine was lately dead. 
E 



73 



74 



KING ARTHUR S DEATH. 

The best of all his company, 

To hold the parley with the king. 

Sir Mordred also charged his host, 

In readiness there for to be; 
But no man should his weapon stir, 

But if a sword drawn they should see. 

For he durst not his uncle trust, 
Nor he his nephew, sooth to tell, — 

Alack ! it was a woeful case, 
As e'er in Christenty befell. 

But when they were together met, 
And both to fair accordance brought, 

And a month's league between them set, 
Before the battle should be fought. 

An adder crept forth from a bush, 

Stung one of the king's knights on the knee 
Alack ! it was a woeful chance 

As ever was in Christenty. 

When the knight found him wounded sore, 
And saw the wild worm hanging there, 

His sword he from his scabbard drew — 
A piteous case, as ye shall hear ! 

For when the two hosts saw the sword, 

They joined battle instantly ; 
Till of so many noble knights, 

On one side there was left but three. 

For all were slain that durst abide, 
And but some few that fled away — 

Ah me ! it was a bloody field, 

As e'er was fought in summer's day. 

Upon King Arthur's own party, 
Only himself escaped there, 



KING ARTHUR S DEATH. 

And Lukyn, Duke of Glo'ster free, 
And the king's butler, Bedevere. 

And when the king beheld his knights 
All dead and scattered on the mould, 

The tears fast trickled down his face, — 
That manly face, in fight so bold. 

Now rest ye all, brave knights ! he said, 
So true and faithful to your trust, 

And must ye then, ye valiant hearts ! 
Be left to moulder into dust ? 

Most loyal have ye been to me ! 

Most true and faithful, unto death ! 
And oh ! to raise ye up again, 

How freely could I yield my breath. 

But see ! the traitor 's yet alive ; 

Lo ! where he stalks among the dead ; 
Now bitterly he shall abide, 

And vengeance fall upon his head. 

O stay, my liege, then said the Duke — 

stay, for love and charity ; 
Remember what the vision spake, 

Nor meet your foe, if it may be. 

O stay me not, thou worthy wight, 

This debt my loyal knights I owe, 
Betide me life, betide me death, 

1 will avenge them of their foe. 

Then straight he grasped his trusty spear, 
And on his horse then mounted he, — 

As his butler helped him to his horse, 
His bowels gushed to his knee. 

Alas ! then said the noble king, 

That I should live this sight to see — 



75 



U KING ARTHUR S DEATH. 

To see this good knight here be slain. 
All for his love in helping me. 

He put his spear into his rest, 

And to Sir Mordred loud 'gan cry, 
Now set thyself upon thy guard, 

For traitor, now thy death is nigh. 

Sir Mordred lifted up his sword, 

And fierce to meet the king ran he ; 

The king his spear he through him thrust 
A fathom full through his body. 

When Mordred felt the stroke of death, 

And found that he was wounded so, 
He thrust himself upon the spear, 

And struck the king a deadly blow. 

Then grimly died Sir Mordred, 

Presently upon that tree, 
And bloody streams came from the king, 

Ere to the duke returned he. 

Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake, — 
Sir knight thou hast been faithful tried 

Now take my sword Excalibar, 
That hangs so freely by my side. 

O take my sword Excalibar,* 

And there into the river throw ; 
For here, henceforth, beneath this tree, 

All use of weapons I forego. 

And fare thee well, thou trusty sword 

A better never had valiant knight, 
With these full oft, and many a day, 

Have I withstood my foe in fight. 

* Elsewhere called Calibicrn, a name familiar to romance and ilsivaliy. 



KING ARTHUR S DEATH. 



77 



With this good falchion in my hand, 

Oft have I reaped the bloody field ; 
But now the fatal hour is come 

That never more I may thee wield. 

The duke to the river side he went, 
And there his own sword in threw he ; 

But he kept back Excalibar, 
He kept it back in privity. 

For all of coleyne * was the blade, 

And all the hilt of precious stone; 
And ever alack, then said the knight, 

Must such a sword away be thrown ? 

Then back he came unto the king, 

Who said, Sir Lukyn, what did ye see ? 

Nothing, my liege, save that the wind 
Blew over the waters fair and free. 

O go again, then said the king ; 

O good Sir Lukyn, go again, — 
Into the river throw my sword, 

Nor keep me lingering here in pain. 

The duke then to the river went, 

And the king's scabbard in threw he ; 

But he kept back Excalibar, 
And hid it underneath a tree. 

Then back he came to tell the king, 

Who said, Sir Lukyn, saw you ought ? — 

Nothing, my liege, save that the wind 
Now with the angry waters fought. 

O Lukyn ! Lukyn ! said the king, 
Twice hast thou dealt deceitfully, 

* Cologne; from whence, at the date of writing this ballad, the best-attem- 
pered swords of blue steel were exported to foreign countries. — Ed. 



78 



KING ARTHUR S DEATH. 



Alack ! whom may we ever trust, 
When such a knight so false can be. 

Say, wouldst thou have thy master dead, 
All for a sword that wins thine eye ! 

Now go again, and throw it in, 
Or here the one of us shall die, 

The duke all shent with this rebuke, 
No answer made unto the king ; 

But to the river took the sword, 
And threw it far as he could fling. 

A Hand and an Arm did meet the sword, 
And flourished three times in the air, 

Then sunk beneath the running stream, 
And of the duke was seen no mair. 

All sore astonished stood the duke, 
He stood as still, as still mote be ; 

Then hastened back to tell the King, 
— But he was gone from under the tree. 

But to what place he could not tell, 
For never after he did him spy ; 

But he saw a barge go from the land, 
And he heard ladies * howl and cry. 

And whether the King were there or not, 

He never knew, nor ever could, 
For from that sad and direful day, 
He never more was seen on mould. 
Percy. 



* Ladies was the old English term for nymphs, either of forest, mountain; 
or stream. — Percy. 



SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. 



This is an old poetical version of Chap. 108, 109, 110, of the 
Morte d' Arthur : it is once quoted by Shakspeare, — Hen. IV., 
pt. ii. Sir Lancelot is a prominent character in more than one old 
romance. Several actions of his are not so favourable to morality 
as the present; he is made, however, to end his days in a very peni- 
tent manner. King Arthur's Round Table is too well known to 
need any explanation. 



When Arthur first in court began, 

And was approved King, 
By force of arms great victories won, 

And conquest home did bring ; 

Then into England straight he came, 

With fifty good and able 
Knights, that resorted unto him, 

And were of his Round Table. 

And many justs and tournaments, 
Whereto were many prest, 

Wherein some knights did then excel, 
And far surmount the rest. 

But one, Sir Lancelot du Lake, 

Who was approved well, 
He for his deeds and feats of arms, 

All others did excel. 



80 



SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. 

When he had rested him awhile, 

In play, and game, and sport, 
He said he would go prove himself 

In some adventurous sort. 

He armed rode in forest wide, 

And met a damsel fair, 
Who told him of adventures great, 

Whereto he gave good ear. 

Such would I find, quoth Lancelot : 

For that cause came I hither. 
Thou seemest, quoth she, a knight full of good, 

And I will bring thee thither. 

Whereas a mighty knight doth dwell, 

That now is of great fame, 
Therefore tell me what wight thou art, 

And what may be thy name ? 

My name is Lancelot du Lake. 

Quoth she, it likes me then : 
Here dwells a knight who never was 

Yet matched with any man ; 

Who has in prison threescore knights 

And four, that he did wound ; 
Knights of King Arthur's court they be, 

And of his Table Round. 

She brought him to a river side, 

And also to a tree, 
Whereon a copper basin hung, 

And many shields to see. 

He struck so hard, the basin broke ; 

And Tarquin soon he spied : 
Who drove a horse before him fast, 

Whereon a knight lay tied. 



SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. 

Sir knight, then said Sir Lancelot, 
Bring me that horse-load hither, 

And lay him down, and let him rest ; 
We'll try our force together. 

For, as I understand, thou hast, 

So far as thou art able, 
Done great despite and shame unto 

The knights of the Round Table, 

If thou be of the Table Round, 

Quoth Tarquin, speedily, 
Both thee and all thy fellowship, 

I utterly defy. 

That's over much, quoth Lancelot, tho', 

Defend thee, by and by. 
They set their spears unto their steeds. 

And each at other fly. 

They couched their spears, (their horses ran 
As though there had been thunder), 

And struck them each immidst their shields, 
Wherewith they broke in sunder. 

Their horses backs brake under them, 
The knights were both astound : 

To avoid their horses they made haste, 
And light upon the ground. 

They took them to their shields full fast, 
Their swords they drew out then, 

With mighty strokes most eagerly, 
Each at the other ran. 

They wounded were, and bled full sore. 
For breath they both did stand ; 

And, leaning on their swords awhile, 
Quoth Tarquin, Hold thy hand, 



81 



82 



SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. 



And tell to me what I shall ask. — 

Say on, quoth Lancelot, tho\* 
Thou art, quoth Tarquin, the best knight 

That ever I did know ; 

And like a knight, that I did hate : 

So that thou be not he, 
I will deliver all the rest, 

And eke accord with thee. 

That is well said, quoth Lancelot; 

But, sith it must be so, 
What knight is that thou hatest thus? — 

I pray thee to me show. 

His name is Lancelot du Lake, 

He slew my brother dear ; 
Him I suspect of all the rest : 

I would I had him here. 

Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknown, — 

I am Lancelot du Lake ; 
Now knight of Arthur's Table Round, 

King Haud's son of Schuwake. 

And, I desire thee, do thy worst ! — 

Ho ! ho ! quoth Tarquin, tho', 
One of us two shall end our lives 

Before that we do go. 

If thou be Lancelot du Lake, 

Then welcome shalt thou be : 
Wherefore see thou thyself defend, 

For now defy I thee. 

They buckled them together so, 
Like unto wild boars rashing,f 

* Then. 

t Rashing seems to be the old hunting phrase to express the stroke made 
by the wild boar with his fang*. To rase, has apparently a meaning some- 
thing similar. Dr. Percy. 



SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. 

And with their swords and shields, they ran 
At one another flashing : 

The ground besprinkled was with blood : 

Tarquin began to yield, 
For he gave back for weariness, 

And low did bear his shield. 

This soon Sir Lancelot espied ; 

He leapt upon him then ; 
He pulled him down upon his knee, 

And, rushing off his helm, 

Forthwith he struck his neck in two ; 

And when he had so done, 
Fiom prison threescore knights and four 

Delivered every one. 
Percy. 



83 



SIR PATRICK SPENCE. 



The King sits in Dunfermlin town, 

Sae merrily drinking the wine ; — 
Where will I get a mariner 

Will sail this ship of mine ? 

Then up hespake a bonny boy, 

Sat just at the king's knee, — 
Sir Patrick Spence is the best seaman 

That e'er set foot on sea. 

The king has written a braid letter, 

Sealed it wi' his ain hand; 
He has sent word to Sir Patrick, 

To come at his command. 

To Norroway ! to Norroway ! 

To Norroway, over the foam ! 
The King's daughter of Norroway, 

'Tis thou must bring her home. 

O wha is this, or wha is that, 

Has told the king of me ? 
For I was never a good seaman, 

Nor ever intend to be. 

Be 't wind, be 't wet, — be 't snow, be 't sleet, 

Our ship maun sail, the morn. 
Ever alack ! my master dear, 

For I fear a deadly storm. * 

In Percy's copy, Sir Patrick complains of being sent out " at this time 



SIR PATRICK SPENCE. 85 

They mounted sail on Munenday morn 

With a' the haste they may ; 
And they have landed in Norraway, 

Upon the Wed-nes-day. 

They hadna' been a month, a month, 

In Norraway but three, 
Till lads of Norraway began to say, 

Ye spend a' our white money. 

Ye spend a' our good king's gold, 

But, and our queen's fee. 
Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, 

Sae loud's I hear you lie ; 

For I brought as much white money 

As will gain my men and me; 
I brought half a fou * of good red gold 

Out o'er the sea wi' me. 

Be 't wind or wet, — be 't snow or sleet, 
Our ship maun sail, the morn. 

ever alack ! my master dear, 
I fear a deadly storm. 

1 saw the new moon late yest'reen, 
Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 

And if we gang to sea, master, 
I fear we '11 suffer harm. 

They hadna' sailed a league on sea, 
A league but barely one, 



of year;" which the Dr. explains by quoting an ordinance forbidding, on 
account of the unskilfulness of the Scotch sailors, and the dangers of their 
seas, any ship to leave this country between St. Simon and Jude (Oct. 2Sth) 
and Candlemas-day (Feb. 2d). — This ballad is not so much worthy of inser- 
tion for its intrinsic excellence, as for its genuine antiquity. 

* Half-a-peck. — Jameison. 



86 



SIR PATRICK SPENCE. 



Till anchors brake, and topmasts lap ; 
There came a deadly storm. 

Where will I find a bonny boy 
Will take their sails in hand ; 

That will gang up to the topmast, 
See an' he ken dry land ? 

Loth, loth were our good Scots lords 
To wet their leather shoon ; 

But, or the morn, at fair day-light, 
Their hats were wet aboon.* 

Many was the feather-bed f 
That flottered on the faem ; 

And many was the good Scots lord 
Gaed awa' that ne'er came home ; 

And many was the fatherless bairn 
That greeting lay at home. 

It 's forty miles to Aberdeen, 

And fifty fathoms deep ; 
And there lie a' our good Scots lords, 

Wi' Sir Patrick at their feet. 

The ladies wrang their hands sae white, 
The maidens tore their hair, — 

A' for the sake of their true loves, 
For them they ne'er saw mair 

Long, long may our ladies stand 
Wi' their fans in their hand, 

Ere they see Sir Patrick and his men 
Come sailing to the land. 
Jamieson. 



* Above. 

t This is probably introduced to shew their luxury, as feather-beds were 
very rare articles in those days. t Weeping. 



ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF 
GISBORNE.* 



Most of the readers of this selection have doubtless met with the 
general particulars of the life of this celebrated outlaw and his prin- 
cipal companions. He and his " merry men " of Sherwood Forest, 
had obtained a greater hold on the traditional lore and provincial 
feelings of the populace, than even the most celebrated conquerors; 
and the victories of Cressy or Agincourt were less esteemed than the 
exploits of Robin Hood. Indeed, if we suffer the feelings of true 
equity and honour to sleep, there are few subjects better calculated 
to excite the pleasing romance of imagination, than the adventures 
of this popular chief. He possessed, in an eminent degree, the 
qualities of heroic daring and savage magnanimity : he was accus- 
tomed to venturous ambushes and hair-breadth escapes. By a rather 
more civilized demeanour than might be expected from a robber, and 
by occasional acts of generosity to those who fell in his power, he 
gained the reputation of a " gentel theefe;" and by his levelling 
principle of taking from the rich, and giving some part of it to the 
poor, he became the darling of the common people. At the same 
time, when we find an author of talent, like Mr. Ritson, seriously 
holding this eccentric character up, as a man perfectly fulfilling all 
the duties required of a subject and citizen, and comparing him, with 
low and mean ribaldry, to respectable classes of men in the present 
day, — then it is time to pause, and express, in the strongest terms, 
our reprobation and detestation of such pernicious opinions, and 
such a prostitution of learning and genius. But it is to be hoped 
that in most of his opinions, Mr. Ritson has few imitators. 

Robin Hood held his abode in Sherwood Forest, which is now 
dismantled, but which then comprehended nearly the whole of the 
north part of Nottinghamshire. He entertained a hundred men, 
who, being picked men, both for corporeal strength and skill in 
archery, were considered a match for four times their number of 
ordinaiy assailants. They were clad in (Lincoln) green, for a 
curious reason, which the reader would scarcely guess; viz., that, 
this^ as most resembled to the colour of the fern and grass, they 

* A market-town in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and on the borders of 
Lancashire. 



88 



ROBIN HOOD AND 



would have the better chance of being unseen when they lay in 
ambush, either for herds, or for men. His principal companions 
were Maid Marian, his mistress, or, it is not absolutely certain that 
she might not have been ultimately his wife ; Little John, whose 
simple appellation is sufficient to introduce him to the reader ; Friar 
Tuck, a libertine and drunken friar, a kind of monkish FalstafF; 
Scarlet, Scatchlock, Much the Miller, and others. Wonderful 
stories are related of his skill in archery ; — as, that he or his man 
Little John could shoot an arrow to the distance of a measured 
mile ; of which, perhaps, we are scarcely fair judges in the present 
day ; but it certainly seems utterly incredible. We are told, how- 
ever, that it was by no means uncommon to kill a deer with an 
arrow at the distance of two hundred yards. Robin Hood's con- 
stant opponent seems to have been, the Sheriff of Nottingham ; an 
official, who would no doubt be anxious to distinguish himself by 
the subversion of this celebrated enemy of the law, and who was 
probably strengthened with additional powers by the government for 
the occasion. Several meetings and contests between these two, are 
among the subjects of the numerous ballads of Robin Hood. 

The detestable severity of the Norman Forest Laws, which occa- 
sioned a man to flee for his life after one single transgression, and 
the great temptation to good archers living on the borders of the 
royal forests, are said to have been the predominant causes of the 
assemblage of outlawed troops, who endeavoured by their numbers 
to protect themselves from the consequences of their delinquency. — 
And, that we may not be too hard upon Robin Hood, we must allow 
him, with Camden and Fuller, to have been " one of the mildest of 
thieves,"* — never robbing the poor, but occasionally giving them a 
part of his spoil, and treating the weaker sex with great respect. He 
was a bitter enemy to the persons, or rather to the wealth, of the 
monks and friars ; and yet, according to his ideas and those of the 
ao-e, he shewed some deference to religion, always respecting the rites 
of the Catholic church, and having founded a chapel in the forest, 
with other acts of this kind. 

Robin Hood was born in the year 1160, and died in the year 
1247, aged 87. He is said to have had, from ancestral connexion, 
some claims on the earldom of Huntingdon, — a point on which anti- 
quaries are not agreed ; he was styled however as such in an epi- 
taph formerly to be seen on his tomb, at Kirkleys, in Yorkshire. 

$??ar uuUsrucatr uig lattl gteau 
Uitg motet txxl at Huntington 
near arctr btv k% fyz £a geutr 
an gtgl Itauttr tm xabin Jjeuif 
gicfy utlafos a l f>i an x\ mm 
bit euatautt uifor £i agen. 

<©fciit 24 3&al: trdumfcrte 1247, 

* MlTISSIMUM PP.iEDONUM. 



GUY OF GISBORNE. O^ 

Here, underneath this little stone, 
Lies Robert, Earl of Huntingdon. 
Ne'er archer were as he so good, 
And people called him Robin Hood. 
Such outlaws, as he, and his men, 
Will England never see again. 

Obiit 24 Cal. Decembris, 1247. 

This epitaph was perhaps inscribed a century or two later. 

Two volumes of ballads, relating to Robin Hood, have been pub- 
lished by Mr. Ritson, in which much research is displayed ; but as 
these, like others of his publications, though in a greater degree, are 
deformed by licentiousness, and gross and low impiety, the Editor 
rather wishes to refer the reader to Mr. Evans's collection, in four 
volumes ; in the second of which will be found about thirty ballads 
of Robin Hood, in a modernized and legible form. 



When shaws * be sheen, and shradds full fair. 

And leaves botli large and long, 
It is merry walking in the fair forest, 

To hear the small birds' song. 

The woodwele f sang, and would not cease, 

Sitting upon the spray, 
So loud, he wakened Robin Hood, 

In the green wood where he lay. 

Now, by my fay ! said jolly Robin, 

A sweven I had this night ; 
I dreamt me of two wighty yeomen, 

That fast with me can fight. 

Methought they did me beat and bind, 
And took my how me fro ; 

* Shaws, little woods— spinnies. Sheen, shining. Shradds, swards— i. 
grass.— Percy. Shrobbs, i. e. shrubs.— Ritson. 

t The golden ouzle, a bird of the thrush kind.— Glossary to Chaucer. 
Percy. 



90 



ROBIN HOOD AND 

If I be Robin alive in this land, 
I'll be wroken on them two. 

Swevens are swift, master, quoth John, 
As the wind that blows o'er a hill ; 

For if it be never so loud this night, 
To-morrow it may be still. 

Busk ye, bown ye, my merry men all, 

And John shall go with me ; 
For I'll go seek yon wight yeomen, 

In green wood, where they be. 

Then they cast on their gowns of green, 

And took their bows each one ; 
And they away to the green forest 

A-shooting forth are gone. 

Until they came to the merry green wood, 

Where they had gladdest be, 
There were they 'ware of a wight yeoman, 

His body leaned to a tree. 

A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, 

Of many a man the bane ; 
And he was clad in his capull-hide, * 

Top, and tail, and mane. 

Stand you still, master, quoth little John, 

Under this tree so green, 
And I will go to yon wight yeoman, 

To know what he doth mean. 

Ah ! John, by me thou settest no store, 

And that I farley f find : 
How oft send I my men before, 

And tarry myself behind ? 

* Horse-hide.— Percy. t Wonder.— Percy. 



GUY OF GISBORNE. 



91 



It is no cunning a knave to ken, 

An' a man but hear him speak ; 
An' it were not for bursting of my bow, 

John, I thy head would break. 

As often words they breeden bale, 

So they parted Robin and John ; 
And John is gone to Barnesdale, — 

The gates * he knoweth each one. 

But when he came to Barnesdale, 

Great heaviness there he had ; 
For he found two of his own fellows 

Were slain both in a slade. f 

And Scarlet, he was flying a-foot, 

Fast o'er stock and stone ; 
For the sheriff, with seven score men, 

Fast after him is gone. 

One shoot now I will shoot, quoth John, 

With Christ his might and main ; 
I'll make yon fellow, that flees so fast, 

To stop he shall be fain. 

Then John bent up his long bend-bow, 

And settled him to shoot : 
The bow was made of a tender bough, 

And fell down to his foot. 

Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, 

That e'er thou grew on a tree ; 
For now this day thou art my bale, 

My boot when thou should be. 

His shot it was but loosely shot, 
Yet flew not the arrow in vain ; 

* Ways,— a very common term still in the North. 

t A breadth of green sward, between plough-lands or woods.— Percy. 



92 



ROBIN HOOD AND 

For it met one of the sheriff's men, — 
Good William a, Trent was slain. 

Jt had been better of William a Trent, 

To have been a-bed with sorrow, 
Than to be that day in the green-wood slade, 

To meet with little John's arrow. 

But as it is said, When men be met, 

Five can do more than three ; 
The sheriff hath taken little John, 

And bound him fast to a tree. 

Thou shalt be drawn by dale and down, 

And hanged high on a hill. 
But thou mayest fail of thy purpose, quoth John, 

If it be Christ his will. 

Let us leave talking of little John, 

And think of Robin Hood, 
How he is gone to the wight yeoman, 

Where under the leaves he stood. 

Good morrow, good fellow, said Robin so fair ; 

Good morrow, good fellow, quoth he, 
Methinks by this bow thou bars't in thy hand, 

A good archer thou shouldst be. 

I am wilful of my way, quoth the yeoman, 

And of my morning tide ; 
I'll lead thee through the wood, said Robin, 

Good fellow, I'll be thy guide. 

I seek an outlaw, the stranger said, 

Men call him Robin Hood ; 
Rather I'd meet with that proud outlaw, 

Than forty pound so good. 

Now come with me, thou wighty yeoman, 
And Robin thou soon shalt see ; 



GUY OF GISBORNE. 

But first let us some pastime find, 
Under the green-wood tree. 

First let us some mastery make, 

Among the woods so even ; 
We may chance to meet with Robin Hood, 

Here at some unset steven. 

They cut them down two summer shrogs, * 

That grew both under a brier, 
And set them threescore rood f in twain, 

To shoot the pricks y-fere. J 

Lead on, good fellow, quoth Robin Hood, 

Lead on, I do bid thee ; 
Nay, by my faith ! good fellow he said, 

My leader thou shalt be. 

The first time Robin shot at the prick, 

He missed but an inch it fro ; 
The yeoman he was an archer good, 

But he could never shoot so. 

The second shoot had the wighty yeoman, 

He shot within the garland ; 
But Robin he shot better than he, 

For he clave the good prick wand. 

A blessing upon thy heart, he said, 
Good fellow, thy shooting is good ; 

For an' thy heart be as good as thy hand, 
Thou wert better than Robin Hood. 

Now tell me thy name, good fellow, said he, 
Under the leaves of lyme ; 



• Shrubs — wands. Percy. 

t About 470 yards, rather more than a quarter of a mile. 

1 Fellow wauds. 



93 



94 



ROBIN HOOD AND 

Nay, by my faith ! quoth bold Robin, 
Till thou have told roe thine. 

I dwell by dale and down, quoth he, 

And Robin to take I am sworn ; 
And when I am called by my right name, 

I am Guye of good Gisborne. 

My dwelling is in this wood, says Robin, 

By thee I set right nought, — 
I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale, 

Whom thou so long hast sought ! 

He that had neither been kith nor kin, 

Might have seen a full fair sight, 
To see how together these yeomen went, 

With blades both brown and bright. 

To see how these yeomen together they fought, 

Two hours of a summer's day, 
Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy, 

Them settled to fly away. 

Robin was reckless of a root, 

And stumbled at that tide ; 
And Guy was quick and nimble withal, 

And hit him in the left side. 

Ah ! dear Lady, said Robin Hood, thou 

That art both Mother and May, 
I think it was never man's destiny, 

To die before his day. 

Robin thought on our Lady dear, 

And soon leapt up again, 
And straight he came with a backward stroke, 

And he Sir Guy hath slain. 

He took Sir Guy's head by the hair, 
And sticked it on his bow's end : 



GUY OF GISBORNE. 95 

Thou hast been a traitor all thy life, 
Which thing must have an end. 

Robin pulled forth an Irish knife, 

And nicked Sir Guy in the face, 
That he was never of woman born, 

Could tell whose head it was. 

Says, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guy, 

And with me be not wroth, 
If thou have had the worse strokes at my hand, 

Thou shalt have the better cloth. 

Robin did off his gown of green, 

And on Sir Guy did it throw, 
And he put on that capull-hide, 

That clad him top to toe. 

The bow, the arrows, and little horn, 

Now with me I will bear, 
For I will away to Barnesdale, 

To see how my men do fare. 

Robin Hood set Guy's horn to his mouth, 

And a loud blast in it did blow, 
That beheard the sheriff of Nottingham, 

As he leaned under a lowe.* 

Hearken ! hearken ! said the sheriff, 

I hear now tidings good, 
For yonder I hear Sir Guy's horn blow, 

And he hath slain Robin Hood. 

Yonder I hear Sir Guy's horn blow, 

It blows so well in tide, 
And yonder comes that mighty yeoman, 

Clad in his capull-hide. 

* Little hill.— Percy. 



96 ROBIN HOOD AND 

Come hither, come hither, thou good Sir Guy, 

Ask wha,t thou wilt of me : — 
1 will none of thy gold, said Robin, 

Nor I will none of thy fee. 

But now I have slain the master, he says, 

Let me go strike the knave ; 
This is all the reward I ask, 

Nor no other will I have. 

Thou art a madman, said the sheriff, 

Thou shouldest have had a knight's fee * 

But, seeing thy asking hath been so bad, 
Well — granted it shall be. 

When little John heard his master speak, 

Well knew he it was his steven ; f 
Now shall I be loosed, quoth little John, 

With Christ his might in Heaven. 

Fast Robin he hied him to little John 

He thought to loose him belive : 
The sheriff and all his company, 

Fast after him did drive. 

Stand back! stand back! said Robin, 

Why draw you me so near ; 
It was never the use in our country, 

One's shrift another should hear. 

But Robin pulled forth an Irish knife 

And loosed John hand and foot, 
And gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand 

And bade it be his boot. 

Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand 
His bolts and arrows each one, 

* This was of different value in different king's reigns, perhaps it ma) be 
computed on an average at 400 acres, 
t Voice. 



GUY OF GISBORNE. 

When the sheriff saw little John bend his bow, 
He settled him to be gone. 

Towards his house, in Nottingham town, 

He fled full fast away, 
And so did all his company, — 

Not one behind would stay. 

But he could neither run so fast, 

Nor away so fast could ride, 
But little John with an arrow so broad, 

He shot him into the side. 

Percy. 



97 



ROBIN HOOD 



AND 



€l)e Curtal * dfnar of dfotmtam*2Me. 



In summer-time, when leaves grow green, 

And flowers are fresh and gay, 
Robin Hood and his merry men 

Were all disposed to play. 

Then some would leap, and some would run, 

And some would use artillery, — 
Which of you can a good bow draw, 

A good archer for to be ? 

Which of you can kill a buck, 

Or who can kill a doe ? 
Or who can kill a hart of grease, f 

Five hundred feet him fro' ? 

Will Scarlet he did kill a buck, 

And Midge did kill a doe, 
And little John killed a hart of grease 

Five hundred feet him fro'. 

God's blessing on thy heart ! said Robin Hood, 

That shot such a shot for me, 
I would ride my horse a hundred miles, 

To find one could match thee. 

* Ritson derives this epithet from the dogs by which he was attended— 
curtails, or curs. 

t Hart of greece, or grease,— a technical appellation, given to a deer of a 
particular age and size. 






ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTAL FRIAR. 99 

That caused Will Scarlet to laugh — 

He laughed full heartily, 
There is a friar in Fountain's Abbey,* 

Will beat both him and thee. 

The Curtal Friar in Fountain's Abbey 

Well draw can a strong bow ; 
He will beat you and your yeomen, 

Set them all in a row. 

Robin Hood took a solemn oath, 

It was by Mary free, 
That he would neither eat nor drink 

Till the friar he did see. 

Ptobin Hood put on his harness good, 

On his head a cap of steel, 
Broad-sword and buckler by his side ; 

And they became him weel. 

He took his bow into his hand, 

It was of a trusty tree, 
With a sheaf of arrows by his side, 

And to Fountain-dale went he. 

And coming to fair Fountain-dale, 

No further would he ride ; 
Then he was aware of a Curtal Friar, 

Walking by the water-side. 



* " De Fontibus," or " Fountain's" Abbey, of the Cistercian order, was 
founded at the beginning of the twelfth century, in a place before called 
Skeldale, near Rippon. At the dissolution, its revenues amounted according 
to Dugdale, who gives the clear income, to 9981. 6s. Sd., and according to 
Speed, who reckons in all the outgoings and rent-charges, to 1173/. This 
valuation places it amongst the greater monasteries, though not Mitred. Its 
ruins are extensive, and highly picturesque and beautiful : they have been 
often engraved. Fountain's-abbey was the mother of an Abbey of some note, 
of the same order, at Woburn, in Bedfordshire. 



100 



ROBIN HOOD AND 



The friar had on a harness good ; 

On his head a cap of steel, 
Broad-sword and buckler by his side, 

And they became him weel.* 

Robin Hood lighted from off his horse, 

And tied him to a thorn : 
Carry me over the water, thou Curtal Friar, 

Or else thy life 's forlorn. 

The friar took Robin Hood on his back, 

Deep water he did bestride, 
And neither spoke good word nor bad, 

Till he came on the other side. . 

Lightly stept Robin off the friar's back, 

The friar said to him again : 
Carry me over the water, thou fine fellow ! 

Or it will breed thee pain. 

Robin Hood took the friar on his back, 

Deep water he did bestridLe, 
And spoke neither good word nor bad, 

Till he came on the other side. 

Lighty leapt the friar off Robin Hood's back, 

Bold Robin said to him again : 
Carry me over the water, thou Curtal Friar, 

Or it shall breed thee pain. 

The friar took Robin on his back again, 
And stept up to his knee, 

* As the Monks were accustomed to appoint some of their order to various 
offices connected with their domestic concerns, — as " cellarer," " kitchener," 
&c. &c. ; it is not very unlikely that they might sometimes appoint one as 
overseer over their Chases and harbours for game : but whether delegated 
or not, they occasionally assumed such strange employments as this friar 
appears to have done. 



THE CURTAL FRIAR. 

And till he came to the middle stream, 
Neither good nor bad spoke he. 

And, coming to the middle stream, 

Then he threw Robin in : 
And choose thee, choose thee, fine fellow! 

Whether thou wilt sink or swim. 

Robin Hood swam to a bush of brooms, 
The friar to the willow wand — 

Bold Robin Hood is gone to the shore, 
And took his bow in his hand. 

One of the best arrows under his belt, 

To the friar he let fly; 
The Curtal Friar with his steel buckler, 

Did put his arrow by. 

Shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow ! 

Shoot as thou hast begun, 
If thou shoot here a summer's day, 

Thy mark I will not shun. 

Bobin Hood shot on so passing well, 

Till his arrows all were gone, 
They took their swords and steel bucklers, 

And fought with might and main, 

From ten o'clock that very day, 

Till four in the afternoon ; 
Then Robin Hood came on his knees, 

Of the friar to beg a boon. 

A boon ! a boon ! thou Curtal Friar, 

I beg it on my knee ; 
Give me leave to set my horn to my mouth. 

And to blow blasts three. 



101 



102 



ROBIN HOOD AND 

That I will do, said the Curtal Friar, 

Of thy blasts I have no doubt ; 
I hope thou will blow so passing well, 

Till both thy eyes drop out. 

Robin Hood set his horn to his mouth, 

And blew out blasts three, — 
Half a hundred yeomen, with their bows bent, 

Came ranging over the lee. 

Whose men are these, said the friar, 

That come so hastily ? 
Those are mine, said Robin Hood, 

Friar, what is that to thee ! 

A boon ! a boon ! said the Curtal Friar, 

The like I gave to thee ; 
Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth, 

And to whute,* whutes three. 

That will I do, said Robin Hood, 

Or else I were to blame ; 
Three whutes in a friar's list, 

Would make me glad and fain. 

The friar he set his fist to his mouth, 

And whuted him, whutes three ; 
Half a hundred good band-dogs 

Came running over the lee. 

Here is for every man a dog, 

And I myself for thee : 
Nay, by my faith, said Robin Hood, 

Friar, that may not be. 

Two dogs at once to Robin did go, 
The one behind, the other before ; 

Robin Hood's mantle of Lincoln green, 
From off his back they tore. 

* Whistle. 



THE CURTAL FRIAR, 



103 



And whether his men shot east or west, 

Or they shot north or south, 
The Curtal dogs, so taught they were, 

They caught the arrows in their mouth. 

Take up thy dogs, said Little John, 

Friar, at my bidding thee. 
Whose man art thou, said the Curtal Friar, 

Comes here to prate to me ? 

I am Little John, Robin Hood's man, 

Friar, I will not lie ; 
If thou take not up thy dogs anon, 

I'll take them up and thee. 

Little John had a bow in his hand, 

He shot with might and main ; 
Soon half a score of the friar's dogs, 

Laid dead upon the plain. 

Hold thy hand, good fellow, said the Curtal Friar, 

Thy master and I will agree ; 
And we will have new orders ta'en, 

With all the haste that may be. 

If thou will forsake fair Fountain-dale, 

And Fountain's Abbey free, 
Every Sunday throughout the year, 

A noble shall be thy fee. 

Every Sunday throughout the year, 

Changed shall thy garment be, 
If thou will go to fair Nottingham, 

And there remain with me. 

The Curtal Friar had kept Fountain-dale, 

Seven long years and more : 
There was neither knight, lord, nor earl, 

Could make him yield before. 
Ritson, & Evans. 



THE NOBLE FISHERMAN; 

OR, 



In summer time, when leaves grow green, 
When they do grow both green and long, 

(Of a bold outlaw, called Robin Hood, — 
It is of him I sing this song). 

When the lily leaf, and the elephant, 
Do bud and spring with a merry cheer, 

This outlaw was weary of the wood-side, 
And chasing of the fallow deer. 

The fishermen brave, more money have 

Then any merchants two or three, 
Therefore I will to Scarborough go, 

That I a fisherman brave may be. 

This outlaw called his merry men all, 
As they sat under the greenwood tree : 

If any of you have gold to spend, 
I pray you heartily spend it with me. 

Now, quoth Robin Hood, I'll to Scarborough go, 

It seems to be a very fair day — 
He took up his journ at a widow woman's house, 

Hard by, upon the water gray. 



THE NOBLE FISHERMAN. 

Who asked him, Where wert thou born I 
Or tell to me, where dost thou fare ? 

I am a poor fisherman, said he then, 
This day entrapped all in care. 

What is thy name, then, fine fellow ! 

I pray thee heartily tell to me ? 
In mine own country, where I was born, 

Men call me Simon over the lee. 

Simon, Simon, said the goodwife, 

I wish thou may'st well brook thy name ; * 
The outlaw was 'ware of her courtesy, 

And rejoiced he had got such a dame. 

Simon, wilt thou be my man, 

And good round wages I'll give thee ? 

I have a good ship of my own, 
As any sails upon the sea. 

Anchors and planks thou shalt want none, 
Masts and ropes that are so long. — 

And if that you thus furnish me, 

Said Simon, nothing shall go wrong. 

They plucked up anchor, and away did sail, 
More of a day than two or three : 

When others cast in their baited hooks, 
The bare lines into the sea cast he. 

It will be long, said the master then, 

Ere this great lubber do thrive on the sea ; 

He shall have no share in our fish, 
For in truth he is in no part worthy. 

woe is me, said Simon then, 
This day that I ever came here ! 

1 wish I were in Plumpton-park, 

A chasing of the nimble deer. 

• Alluding, probably, to St. Peter, the pntron of fishermer 
F 2 



105 



106 



THE NOBLE FISHERMAN. 

For every clown laughs me to scorn, 
And they by me set nought at all : 

If I had them in Plumpton-park, 
I would set as little by them all. 

They plucked up anchor, and away did sail, 
More of a day than two or three ; 

But Simon spied a. ship of war, 
That sailed toward them most valorously. 

O woe is me, said the master then, 
This day, that ever I was born ! 

For all our fish that we have got, 
Is every bit lost and forlorn, 

For yon French robbers on the sea, 
They will not spare of us one man ; 

But carry us to the coast of France, 
And lay us in a prison strong. 

But, Simon said, do not fear them, 
Neither, master, take you care ; 

Give me a bent bow in my hand, 

And never a Frenchman will I spare ! 

Hold thy peace, thou long lubber, 

For thou art nought but brags and boast ; 

If I should cast you overboard, 
There is but a simple lubber lost 

Simon grew angry at these words, 

And so angry then was he ; 
Then he took his bent bow in his hand, 

And in the ship hatch goeth he. 

Master, tie me to the mast, he said, 
That at my mark I may stand fair ; 

And give me my bent bow in my hand, 
And never a Frenchman will I spare! 



THE NOBLE FISHERMAN. 

He drew his arrow to the head, 
And drew it with all might and main ; 

And straight in the twinkling of an eye, 
To the Frenchman's heart the arrow's gone. 

The Frenchman fell down on the hatch, 
And under the hatches down "below ; 

Another Frenchman that him espied, 
The dead corpse into the sea did throw. 

O master, loose me from the mast, he said, 
And for them all take you no care ; 

And give me my bent bow in my hand, 
And never a Frenchman will I spare ! 

Then straight they boarded the French ship, 
They lying dead all in their sight ; 

The y found within the ship of war, 

Twelve thousand pounds of money bright. 

The one half of the ship, said Simon, then, 
I'll give to my dame and her children small 

The other half of the ship I'll give, 
To you that are my fellows all. 

But now bespake the master then, 

For so, Simon, it shall not be, 
For you have won it with your own hands, 

And the owner of it you shall be, 

It shall be so, as I have said, 

And with this gold, for the oppressed 

An habitation will I build, 

Where they shall live in peace and rest. 

Ritson, & Evans. 



107 



ROBIN HOOD'S CHASE. 



Come, you gallants all ! to you I do call, 

That now are in this place ; 
For a song I will sing, of Henry our king, 

How he did Robin Hood chase. 

Queen Katherin * she a match did make, 

As plainly doth appear, 
For three hundred tun of good red wine, 

And three hundred tun of beer. 

But yet her archers she had to seek, 
With their bows and arrows so good ; 

But her mind it was bent, with a good intent, 
To send for bold Robin Hood. 

But when bold Robin Hood he came there, 

Queen Katherin she did say : 
Thou art welcome, Locksley, said the queen, 

i\.nd all thy yeomen gay. 

For a match of shooting I have made, 

And thou on my part must be : — 
" If I miss the mark, be it light or dark, 

Then hanged I will be.'' 

* There was no queen consort named Katherine before Henry V.'s time : 
consequently, this is a mere fancy of the ballad-writer. Mr. Ritson con- 
ceives that it might have been adopted on account of Henry VIII. having 
three queens of that Name, which would therefore be familiar to the author. 



ROBIN HOOD S CHASE. 

But when the game came to be played, 

Bold Robin he then drew nigh ; 
With his mantle of green, most brave to be seen, 

He let his arrows fly. 

And when the game it ended was, 

Bold Robin won it with a grace; 
But after the king was angry with him, 

And vowed he would him chase. 

What though his pardon granted was, 

While he with him did stay, 
But yet the king was vexed with him, 

When he was gone his way. 

Soon after the king from the court did hye, 

In a furious angry mood, 
And often inquired both far and near, 

After bold Robin Hood. 

But when the king to Nottingham came, 

Bold Robin was in the wood : 
O come now, said he, and let me see, 

Who will find me bold Robin Hood. 

But when that bold Robin he did hear 

The king had him in chase, 
Then said little John, 'Tis time to be gone, 

x\nd go to some other place. 

And away they went from merry Sherwood, 

And into Yorkshire he did hye ; 
And the king did follow, with a whoop and a hallo, 

But could not come him nigh. 

Yet jolly Robin he passed along, 

And went straight to Newcastle town ; 

And there stayed he hours two or three, 
And then to Barwick is gone. 



109 



110 



ROBIN HOOD S CHASE. 



When the king did see, how Robin did flee, 

He was vexed wondrous sore ; 
With a hoop and a halloo, he vowed to follow, 

And take him or never give o'er. 

Come now let's away, then cries little John, 

Let any man follow that dare ; 
To Carlisle we'll hye, with our company, 

And so then to Lancaster. 

From Lancaster then to Chester they went, 

And so did King Henry ; 
But Robin went away, for he durst not stay, 

For fear of some treachery. 

Says Robin, Come let us for London go, 

To see our noble Queen's face ; 
It may be she wants our company, 

Which makes the king so us chase. 

When Robin he came Queen Katherin before, 

He fell low upon his knee : 
If it please your grace, I am come to this place, 

For to speak with King Henry. 

Queen Katherin answered bold Robin Hood again, 
The king is gone to merry Sherwood ; 

And when he went away, to me he did say, 
He would go and see Robin Hood. 

Then fare you well, my gracious queen : 

For to Sherwood I will hye apace ; 
For fain would I see, what he would with me, 

If I could but meet with his grace. 

But when King Henry he came home, 

Full weary and vexed in mind, 
And that he did hear, Robin had been there, 

He blamed dame Fortune unkind. 



ROBIN HOOD S CHASE. 

You're welcome home, Queen Katherin cried, 

Henry, my sovereign liege ; 
Bold Robin Hood, that archer good, 

Your person hath been to seek. 

But when King Henry he did hear, 

That Robin had been there him to seek, 

This answer he gave, He is a cunning knave, 
For I have sought him this whole three week. 

A boon ! a boon ! Queen Katherin cried. 

I beg it here of your grace, — 
To pardon his life, and seek not strife : 

— And so endeth Robin Hood's chase. 

Ritson, & Evans. 



Ill 



KING JOHN 

AND 

€f)e MUt of Canterbury. 



Supposed to have been modernized about the time of James I., 
from one much older, intitled, " King John and the Bishop of 
Canterbury ;" from a copy of which, in Dr. Percy's possession, 
some lines have been inserted in this. There is another ballad, of 
inferior merit, called, " King Olfrey (supposed, to mean " Alfred ") 
and the Abbot." St. Augustine's Abbey, at Canterbury, alluded to 
here, was founded in 978, and was one of the most considerable in 
the kingdom : the Abbot had the Mitre, and sat in Parliament as a 
Baron : he was also exempt from the Archbishop's jurisdiction, and 
subject only to the Pope. He had, at one period, the allowance 
of mintage and coinage of money, in right of his abbacy. At the 
Dissolution, when it is probable, from local circumstances, that its 
revenues had decreased, they were valued at 1478/. 4s. 7d., — a sum 
equal to 30,000/. in the present day. — Ed. 



An ancient story I'll tell you anon, 
Of a notable prince, that was called King John : 
And he ruled England with main and with might,,- 
For he did great wrong, and maintained little right. 

And I'll tell you a story, — a story so merry, — 
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury : 
How, for his housekeeping, and high renown, 
They rode post for him to fair London town. 

An hundred men, the King did hear say, 
The Abbot kept in his house every day : 
And fifty gold Chains, without any doubt, 
In velvet coats, waited the abbot about. 



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. 



113 



How now! Father Abbot, I hear it of thee, 
Thou keepest a far better house than me : 
And for thy housekeeping, and high renown, 
I fear thou work'st treason against my crown. 

My Liege, quoth the Abbot, I would it were known, 
I never spend nothing but what is my own : 
And I trust your Grace will do me no deere, 
For spending my own true-gotten gear. 

Yes, yes, — quoth he, — Abbot, thy fault it is high, 
And now for the same thou needest must die ; 
For except thou canst answer me questions three, 
Thy head shall be smitten from thy body. 

And first, — quo' the King, — when I'm in this stead, 
With my crown of gold so fan- on my head, 
Among all my liege-men so noble of birth, 
Thou must tell me, to one penny, what I am worth. 

Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, 
How soon I may ride the whole world about ; 
And at the third question thou must not shrink, 
But tell me here truly, what I do think. 

O, these are hard questions for my shallow wit, 
Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet ; 
But if you will give me but three weeks space, 
I'll do my endeavour to answer your Grace. 

Now three weeks space to thee I will give, 
And that is the longest time thou hast to live ; 
For if thou dost not answer my questions three, 
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me. 

Away rode the Abbot, all sad at that word, 
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford ; 
But never a Doctor there was so wise, 
That could, with his learning, an answer devise. 



114 



KING JOHN AND 



Then home rode the Abbot, of comfort so cold, 
And he met his shepherd a-going to fold : 
How now ! my Lord Abbot, you are welcome home, 
What news do you bring us from good King John ? 

Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give, — 
That I have but three days more to live : 
For if I do not answer him questions three, 
My head will be smitten from my body. 

The first is, to tell him, there in that stead, 
With his crown of gold so fair on his head, 
Among all his liege men so noble of birth, 
To within one penny of what he is worth. 

The second, to tell him, without any doubt, 
How soon he may ride this whole world about ; 
And at the third question I must not shrink, 
But tell him there truly what he does think. 

Now cheer up, Sir Abbot, — did you never hear yet, 
That a fool he may learn a wise man wit ? 
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, 
And I'll ride to London, to answer your quarrel. 

Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me, 
I am like your Lordship as ever may be : 
And if you will but lend me your gown, 
There is none shall know us at fair London town. 

Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, 
With sumptuous array, most gallant and brave, — 
With crozier and mitre, and rochet and cope, — 
Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope. 

Now welcome, Sir Abbot, the King he did say, 
'Tis well thou 'rt come back to keep thy day : 
For, and if thou canst answer my questions three, 
Thy life and thy living both saved shall be. 



THE ABBOT. 



115 



And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, 
With my crown of gold so fair on my head, 
Among all my liege men so noble of birth, 
Tell me, to one penny, what I am worth. 

For thirty pence Our Saviour was sold 
Among the false Jews, as I have been told, 
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, 
For I think, thou art one penny worser than he. 

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, 
I did not think I had been worth so little : 
Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, 
How soon I may ride this whole world about. 

You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, 
Until the next morning he riseth again, 
And then your Grace need not make any doubt, 
But in twenty-four hours you will ride it about. 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, 
I did not think it could be gone so soon: 
Now from the third question thou must not shrink, 
But tell me here truly what I do think. 

Yea, that shall I do, and make your Grace merry — 
You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury, 
But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, 
That am come to beg pardon for him and for me. 

The king he laughed, and swore by the mass, 
I will make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place : 
Now stay, my liege, be not in such speed, 
For alack ! I can neither write nor read. 

Four nobles a week then, I will give thee, 
For this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me ; 
And tell the old Abbot when thou comest home, 
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John. 
Percy. 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 



The common story of Valentine and Orson, was originally a 
translation from one of the oldest French romances, probably of the 
Thirteenth Century. It is likely that some facts were the groundwork, 
with a plentiful sprinkling of marvellous fable. In Dr. Percy's MS. 
was an old poem on this subject, in a very corrupt state, from which 
a few particulars were adopted by him, and the greater part of the 
rest taken from the prose story. 



When Flora 'gins to deck the fields 

With colours fresh and fine, 
Then holy clerks their matins sing, 

To good Saint Valentine. 

The King of France * that morning fair, 

He would a hunting ride : 
To Artoy's forest prancing forth, 

In all his princely pride. 

To grace his sports, a courtly train 

Of gallant peers attend ; 
And with their loud and cheerful cries, 

The hills and valleys rend. 

* Afterwards called King Pepin ; he reigned in the middle of the Eighth 
Century, and was the father of the great Charlemagne. 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

Through the deep forest swift they pass, 
Through woods and thickets wild ; 

When down within a lonely dell, 
They found a new-born child. 

The sudden sight surprised them all, 
The courtiers gathered round ; 

They look, they call, the mother seek, — 
No mother could he found. 

At length the king himself drew near, 

And as he gazing stands, 
The pretty babe looked up and smiled, 

And stretched his little hands. 

Now, by the rood ! King Pepin says, 

This child is passing fair ; 
I wot he is of gentle blood, 

Perhaps some prince's heir. 

Go bear him home unto my court, 

With all the care ye may ; 
Let him be christened Valentine, 

In honour of this day. 

And look me out some cunning nurse, — 

Well nurtured let him be ; 
Nor aught be wanting that becomes, 

A bairn of high degree. 

They look him out a cunning nurse, 

And nurtured well was he ; 
Nor aught was wanting that became, 

A bairn of high degree. 

Thus grew the little Valentine, 

Beloved of king and peers ; 
And shewed in all he spake or did, 

A wit bevond his years. 



11 



118 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

But chief in gallant feats of arms 

He did himself advance, 
That ere he grew to man's estate 

He had no peer in France. 

And now the early down began, 
To shade his youthful chin ; 

When Valentine was dubbed a knight, 
That he might glory win. 

A boon ! boon ! my gracious liege, 

I beg a boon of thee ; 
The first adventure that befalls 

May be reserved for me. 

The first adventure shall be thine, 
The king did smiling say. — 

Nor many days, when lo ! there came 
Three Palmers clad in grey. 

Help, gracious lord ! they weeping said, 

And knelt, as it was meet ; 
From Artoy's forest we be come, 

With weak and weary feet. 

Within those deep and dreary woods, 

There wends a savage boy, 
Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield 

Thy subjects dire annoy. 

'Mong ruthless bears he sure was bred, 

He lurks within their den ; 
With bears he lives, with bears he feeds, 

And drinks the blood of men. 

To more than savage strength he joins, 

A more than human skill ; 
For arms, no cunning may suffice 

His cruel rage to still. 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 119 

Up then rose Sir Valentine, 

And claimed that arduous deed : 
Go forth and conquer, said the king, 

And great shall be thy meed. 

Well mounted on a milk-white steed, 

His armour white as snow, 
As well beseemed a virgin knight, 

Who ne'er had fought a foe.* 

To Artoy's forest he repairs, 

With all the haste he may ; 
And soon he spies the savage youth, 

A rending of his prey. 

His unkemped hair all matted hung 

His shaggy shoulders round ; 
His eager eye all fiery glowed, 

His face with fury frowned. 

Like eagles' talons grew his nails, — 

His limbs were thick and strong ; 
And dreadful was the knotted oak 

He bore with him along. 

Soon, as Sir Valentine approached, 

He starts with sudden spring, 
And yelling forth a hideous howl, 

He made the forests ring. 

As when a tiger, fierce and fell, 

Hath spied a passing roe, 
And leaps at once upon his throat, — 

So sprung the savage foe. 

So lightly leaped with furious force, 
The gentle knight to seize ; 

* Such was the rule of chivalry. 



120 



VALENTINE AND URSINE 

But met his tall uplifted spear, 
Which sunk him on his knees. 

A second stroke, so stiff and stern, 

Had laid the savage low ; 
But springing up, he raised his club, 

And aimed a dreadful blow. 

The watchful warrior bent his head, 
And shunned the coming stroke ; 

Upon his taper spear it fell, 
And all to shivers broke. 

Then lighting nimbly from his steed, 
He drew his burnished brand : 

The savage quick as lightning flew 
To wrest it from his hand. 

Three times he grasped the silver hilt,— 
Three times he felt the blade, — 

Three times it fell with furious force, — 
Three ghastly wounds it made. 

Now with redoubled rage he roared, 
His eye-ball flashed with fire ; 

Each hairy limb with fury shook, 
And all his heart was ire. 

Then closing fast, with furious gripe, 
He clasped the champion round, 

And with a strong and sudden twist, 
He laid him on the ground. 

But soon the knight, with active spring, 

O'erturned his hairy foe : 
And now between their sturdy fists 

Passed many a bruising blow. 



•121 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

They rolled and grappled on the ground, 
And there they struggled long : 

Skilful and active was the Knight,— 
The Savage he was strong. 

But brutal force and savage strength 

To art and skill must yield : 
Sir Valentine at length prevailed, 

And won the well-fought field. 

Then binding straight the conquered foe 

Fast with an iron chain, 
He ties him to his horse's tail, 

And leads him o'er the plain. 

To Court, his hairy captive soon 

Sir Valentine doth bring, 
And kneeling down upon his knee, 

Presents him to the King. 

With loss of blood and loss of strength, 

The Savage tamer grew, 
And to Sir Valentine became 

A servant tried and true. * 

And 'cause with Bears f he erst was bred, 
Ursine f they call his name, — 

A name which unto future times 
The Muses shall proclaim. 



* Similar to this was the case of the Giant Ascapart, who after being 
subdued, became a most zealous and trusty servant to Sir Bevis.— See the 
old Romance of Bevis of Hampton. Two ancient figures of these worthies 
;ire to be seen painted on the Bar Gate at Southampton. — Ed. 

♦ L'r.fus, a bear,— Lat. Orson is derived, in the same manner, from 
Ours—Fr. 



VALENTINE AND URSINE 



PART II. 



In high renown with prince and peer, 

Now lived Sir Valentine ; 
His high renown with prince and peer. 

Made envious hearts repine. 

It chanced, the King upon a day- 
Prepared a sumptuous feast, 

And there came lords and dainty dames, 
And many a noble guest. 

Amid their cups, that freely flowed, 

Their revelry and mirth, 
A youthful knight taxed Valentine 

With base and doubtful birth. 

The foul reproach, so grossly urged, 
His generous heart did wound, 

And straight he vowed he ne'er would rest 
Till he his parents found. 



123 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

Then bidding King and Peers adieu, 

Early one summer's day, 
With faithful Ursine by his side, 

From court he took his way. 

Over hill and valley, moss and moor, 

For many a day they pass, 
At length, upon a moated lake,* 

They found a bridge of brass. 

Beyond it rose a castle fair, 

All built of marble stone, 
The battlements were gilt with gold, 

And glittered in the sun. 

Beneath the bridge, with strange device 
A hundred bells f were hung, 

That man, nor beast, might pass thereon, 
But straight their larum rung. 

This quickly found the youthful pair, 

Who boldly crossing o'er, 
The jingling sound bedeaft their ears, 

And rung from shore to shore. 



■ A Like that served for a moat to a castle. — Dr. Percy. 

t "The circumstance of the Bridge of Bells is taken from the old metrical 
legend of Sir Beves, and has also been copied in the Seven Champions. The 
original lines are — 

' Over the dyke a bridge there lay, 
That man and beeste might passe away, 
Under the brydge were sixty belles, 
Right as the Romans (romance) tells, 
That there might no man passe in, 
But all they rang with a gyn.' " 

Dr. Percy. 

Gyn is probably engine ; i. e. the machinery which caused the bells to 
sound. 



124 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

Quick, at the sound, the castle gates 

Unlocked and opened wide, 
And straight a Giant huge and grim, 

Stalked forth with stately pride. 

Now yield you, caitiffs, to my will, 

He cried with hideous roar, 
Or else the wolves shall eat your flesh, 

And ravens drink your gore. 

Vain boaster ! said the youthful knight. 

I scorn thy threats and thee — 
I trust to force thy brazen gates, 

And set thy captives free. 

Then putting spurs unto his steed, 
He aimed a dreadful thrust ; 

The spear against the giant glanced, 
And caused the blood to burst. 

Mad and outrageous with the pain, 
He whirled his mace of steel, — 

The very wind of such a blow 
Had made the champion reel. 

It haply missed ; and now the knight 
His glittering sword displayed, 

And riding round with whirlwind speed, 
Oft made him feel the blade. 

As when a large and monstrous oak 

Unceasing axes hew, 
So fast around the giant's limbs 

The blows quick darting flew. 

As when the boughs with hideous fall 
Some hapless woodman crush, 

With such a force the enormous foe 
Did on the champion rush. 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

A fearful blow, alas ! there came, 
Both horse and knight it took, 

And laid them senseless in the dust, 
So fatal was the stroke. 

Then smiling forth a hideous grin, 

The Giant strides in haste, 
And, stooping, aims a second stroke — 

" Now caitiff, breath thy last." 

But ere it fell, two thundering blows 

Upon his skull descend ; 
From Ursine 's knotty club they came. 

Who ran to save his friend. 

Down sunk the Giant, gaping wide. 

And rolling his grim eyes ; 
The hairy youth repeats his blows — 

He gasps, he groans, he dies. 

Quickly, Sir Valentine revived, 

With Ursine's timely care; 
And now to search the castle walls 

The venturous youths repair. 

The blood and bones of murdered knights 
They found where'er they came ; 

At length, within a lonely cell, 
They saw a mournful Dame. 

Her gentle eyes were dim with tears, 
Her cheeks were pale with woe ; 

And long Sir Valentine besought, 
Her doleful tale to know. 

Alas ! young knight, she weeping said, 

Condole my wretched fate ; 
A childless mother here you see, 

A wife without a mate. 



125 



m 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

These twenty winters here forlorn 
I've drawn my hated breath, 

Sole witness of a monster's crimes, 
And wishing ay for death. 

Know, I am sister of a king ; 

And in my early years 
Was married to a mighty prince, 

The fairest of his peers. 

With him I sweetly lived in love 

A twelvemonth and a day, 
When lo, a foul and treacherous priest 

Upwrought our love's decay. 

His seeming goodness won him power — 

He had his master's ear ; 
And long to me and all the world 

He did a saint appear. 

One day, when we were all alone, 

He proffered odious love ; 
The wretch with horror I repulsed, 

And from my presence drove. 

He feigned remorse, and piteous begg'd, 

His crime I'd not reveal ; 
Which, for his seeming penitence, 

I promised to conceal. 

With treason, villany, and wrong, 

My goodness he repay'd ; 
With jealous doubts he filled my lord, 

And me to woe betrayed. 

He hid a slave within my bed, 

Then raised a bitter cry ; 
My lord, possessed with rage, condemned 

Me, all unheard to die. 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

But 'cause I then was great with child, 

At length my life he spared, 
But bade me instant quit the realm, 

One trusty knight my guard. 

Forth on my journey I depart, 
Oppressed with grief and woe ; 

And towards my brother's distant court, 
With breaking heart I go. 

Long time through sundry foreign lands, 

We slowly pace along ; 
At length, within a forest wild, 

I fell in labour strong. 

And while the knight for succour sought, 

And left me there forlorn, 
My childbed pains so fast increased, 

Two lovely boys were born. 

The eldest fair and smooth as snow, 
That tips the mountain hoar ; 

The younger's little body rough, 
With hairs was covered o'er. 

But here afresh begin my woes — 

While tender care I took, 
To shield my eldest from the cold, 

And wrap him in my cloak, 

A prowling Bear burst from the wood. 
And seized my younger son ; 

Affection lent my weakness wings. 
And after them I run. 

But all forewearied, weak and spent, 

I quickly swooned away, 
And there beneath the green-wood shade. 

Long time I lifeless lay. 



127 



128 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

At length the knight brought me relief) 
And raised me from the ground ; 

But neither of my pretty babes 
Could ever more be found. 

And while in search we wandered far, 

We met that Giant grim, 
Who ruthless slew my trusty knight, 

And bare me off with him. 

But charmed hj heaven, or else my griefs, 

He offered me no wrong ; 
Save that within these lonely walls, 

I've been immured so long. 

Now, surely, said the youthful knight, 

You are Lady Bellisance r 
Wife to the Grecian Emperor, 

Your brother's King of France. 

For in your royal brother's court 

Myself my breeding had, 
Where oft the story of your woes 

Hath made my bosom sad. 

If so, know your accuser's dead, 
And dying owned his crime ; 

And long your lord hath sought you out, 
Through every foreign clime. 

And when no tidings he could learn, 

Of his much wronged wife, 
He vowed thenceforth within his court, 

To lead a hermit's life. 

Now Heaven is kind, the lady said, 

And dropped a joyful tear, 
Shall I once more behold my lord I 

That lord I love so dear. 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

But, madam, said Sir Valentine, 

And knelt upon his knee ; 
Know you the cloak that wrapped your babe, 

If you the same should see ? 

And pulling forth the cloth of gold, 

In which himself was found, 
The lady gave a sudden shriek, 

And fainted on the ground. 

But by his pious care revived, 

His tale she heard anon ; 
And soon by other tokens found, 

He was indeed her son. 

But who's this hairy youth, she said, 

He much resembles thee ; 
The bear devoured my younger son, 

Or sure that son was he? 

Madam, this youth with bears was bred, 

And reared within their den ; 
But recollect ye any mark, 

To know your son again ? 

Upon his little side, quoth she, 

Was stamped a bloody rose, — 
Here lady, see the crimson mark, 

Upon his body grows. 

Then clasping both her new-found sons, 
She bathed their cheeks with tears ; 

And soon towards her brother's court, 
Her joyful course she steers. 

What pen can paint King Pepin's joy ? 

His sister thus restored ; 
x\nd soon a messenger was sent, 

To cheer her drooping lord. 



129 



130 



VALENTINE AND URSINE. 

Who came in haste, with all his peers, 
To fetch her home to Greece, 

Where many happy years they reigned, 
In perfect love and peace. 

To them Sir Ursine did succeed, 

And long the sceptre bare ; 
Sir Valentine he stayed in France, 

And was his uncle's heir, 



Percy. 



ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 



From the Pepysian Collection, and probably of the time of 
James the First. 



Of Hector's deeds did Homer sing, 
And of the sack of stately Troy, 

What griefs fair Helena did bring, 
That was Sir Paris' only joy ; 

And by my pen I will recite 

St. George's deeds — an English knight. 

Against the Saracens so rude, 

Fought he full long and many a day, 

Where many Giants he subdued, 
In honour of the Christian sway ; 

And after many adventures past, 

To Egypt land he came at last. 

Now, as the story plain doth tell, 
Within that country then did rest 

A dreadful Dragon fierce and fell, 
Whereby they were full sore opprest : 

Who by his poisonous breath each day 

Did many of the city slay. 



132 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 

The grief whereof did grow so great, 

Throughout the limits of the land, 
That they their wise men did intreat, 

To shew their cunning, out of hand, 
What way they might this fiend destroy 
That did the country thus annoy. 

The wise men all before the king, 

This answer framed, incontinent, 
The Dragon none to death might bring, 

By any means they could invent : 
His skin more hard than brass was found, 
No sword or spear could pierce or wound. 

When this the people understood, 

They cried out most piteously : 
The Dragon's breath infects their blood, 

That every day in heaps they die : 
Among them such a plague it bred, 
The living scarce could bury the dead. 

No means there were, as they could hear, 

For to appease the Dragon's rage, 
But to present some virgin clear,* 

Whose blood his fury might appease. 
Each day he would a maiden eat, 
For to allay his hunger great. 

* In the Chivalric ages, dragons formed a striking class in Natural History : 
they had a most unhappy and wicked custom of eating young ladies, 
which, however, was generally, in the most interesting cases, frustrated by 
the appearance of some gallant and generous Knight, who spitted the dragon 
instead, and was of course rewarded with the hand of the lady, who, in 
addition to perfect beauty, was adorned with every virtue. So far it is a 
pretty fable. But " the age of chivalry is gone," as said the eloquent Burke ; 
and the dragons of romance are gone with it, — wings, tails, and all. Yet it 
is to be feared that the fair sex meet with too many biped ones, who would 
indeed devour them ! — and against whom, in this selfish age, they may look 
in vain for a generous champion. 



ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 

This thing by art the wise men found, 
Which truly must observed be ; 

Wherefore throughout the city round 
A virgin pure of good degree, 

Was, by the King's commission, still 

Taken up to serve the Dragon's will. 

Thus did the Dragon every day 
Untimely crop some virgin flower, 

Till all the maids were worn away, 
And none were left him to devour, 

Saving the King's fair daughter bright, 

Her father's only heart's delight. 

Then came the officers to the King, 
That heavy message to declare, 

Which did his heart with sorrow sting, — 
She is, quoth he, my kingdom's heir ; 

O ! let us all be poisoned here, 

Ere she should die that is my dear. 

Then rose the people presently, 

And to the King in rage they went : 

They said his daughter dear should die, 
The Dragon's fury to prevent — 

Our daughters are all dead, quoth they, 

And have been made the Dragon's prey. 

And by their blood we rescued were, 
And thou hast saved thy life thereby, 

And now, in sooth, it is but fair 

For us thy daughter thus should die. 

O, save my daughter, said the King, 

And let me feel the Dragon's sting ! 

Then fell fair Sabra on her knees, 
And to her father dear did say, 



133 



134 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 

O father, strive not thus for me, 

But let me be the Dragon's prey — 
It may be, for my sake alone, 
This plague upon the land was thrown. 

'Tis better I should die, she said, 

Than all your subjects perish quite ; 
Perhaps the Dragon here was laid, 

For my offence to work his spite, 
And after he has sucked my gore, 
Your land shall feel the grief no more. 

What hast thou done, my daughter dear, 

For to deserve this heavy scourge ? 
It is my fault, as may appear, 

Which makes the Gods our state to purge — 
Then ought I die to stint the strife, 
And to preserve thy happy life. 

Like madmen,, all the people cried, 

Thy death to us can do no good ; 
Our safety only doth abide 

In making her the Dragon's food.* 
Lo ! here I am — I come, — quoth she, 
Therefore do what you will with me. 

Nay, stay, dear daughter, quoth the Queen ; 

And as thou art a virgin bright, 
That hast for virtue famous been, 

So let me clothe thee all in white, 
And crown thy head with flowers sweet, 
An ornament for virgins meet. 

* Of such fabulous instances of exposure to monsters, the classical story of 
Andromeda, and more especially that of Hesione, afford instances in point, 
with many others. Abundance is also to be found in the early romancers, 
and in Ariosto, Spenser, &c. 



ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. I3o 

And when she was attired so, 

According to her mother's mind, 
Unto the stake then did she go ; 

To which her tender limbs they bind. 
And being bound to stake a-thrall, 
She bade farewell unto them all. 

Farewell, my father dear, quoth she, 
And my sweet mother, meek and mild ; 

Take you no thought, nor weep for me, 
For you may have another child — 

Since for my country's good I die, 

Death I receive most willingly. 

The King and Queen, and all their train, 
With weeping eyes, went then their way, 

And let their daughter there remain 
To be the hungry dragon's prey ; 

But as she did the re weeping lie, 

Behold St. George came riding by.* 

* Of this tutelar Champion of England, very little certain is known, 
beyond the fact of his having been a martyr in the reign of Diocletian, 
about A. D. 300. It is probable, from the traditions current of his history, 
that he was a person distinguished for valour, and perhaps an officer in the 
Roman army. Dr. Milner, a late titular Roman Catholic Bishop, published 
a treatise on his existence and exploits. 

The outline of this legend is taken from the romance of Sir Bevis; in 
which are some particulars, not adopted here, which Mr. Ellis, in his prose 
epitome, has placed in rather a ludicrous light. At the first onset, the dragon 
whipped Sir Bevis with his tail, into a well ; and well it was for the Knight 
he did so, as this was a sainted stream, and endowed with healing pro- 
perties, by virtue of which Sir Bevis sprung up into the upper regions, — 
like Anteeus from the earth, — with renewed vigour. Twice, or three times 
more was he flapped backwards into the same receptacle, by the irre- 
sistible tail ; but at length he succeeded in disabling his truculent enemy, 
by slicing off a portion, several feet in length, of this useful and orna- 
mental appendage, — thus curtailing the dragon of one of his most 
formidable weapons ; and then attacking " the very head and front of 
his offending," he put a final stop to all his outrages and gambols for the 
future. 



136 



ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 

And seeing there a lady bright 

So rudely tied unto a stake, 
As well became a valiant knight, 

He straight to her his way did take. 
Tell me, sweet maiden, then quoth he, 
What caitiff thus abuseth thee ? — 

And lo ! by Christ his cross I vow, 
Which here is figured on my breast, 

I will revenge it on his brow, 

And break my lance upon his crest : — 

And speaking thus, where as he stood, 

The Dragon issued from the wood. 

The lady that did first espy 

The dreadful Dragon coming so, 

Unto St. George aloud did cry, 
And willed him away to go — 

Here comes the cursed fiend, quoth she, 

That soon will make an end of me. 

St. George then looking round about, 
The fiery Dragon soon espied, 

And like a knight of courage stout, 
Against him did most fiercely ride. 

When with such blows he did him greet, 

He fell beneath his horse's feet. 

For with his lance that was so strong, 
As he came gaping in his face, 

In at his mouth he thrust along, — 
For he could pierce no other place ; 

And thus within the lady's view 

This mighty Dragon straight he slew. 

The savour of his poisoned breath 
Could do this holy knight no harm ; 






ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 137 

Thus he the lady saved from death, 

And home he led her by the arm ; 
Which Avhen King Ptolemy did see, 
There was great mirth and melody. 

When as that valiant champion there 

Had slain the Dragon in the field, 
To court he brought the lady fair, 

Which to their hearts much joy did yield. 
He in the court of Egypt staid, 
Till he most falsely was betrayed. 

That lady dearly loved the knight, — 

He counted her his only joy ; 
But when their love was brought to light, 

It turned unto their great annoy : 
The Morocco King was in the court, 
Who to the orchard* did resort 

Daily, to take the pleasant air, — 

For pleasure so he used to walk, — 
Under a wall he oft did hear 

St. George with lady Sabra talk : 
Their love he shewed unto the King, 
Which to St. George great woe did bring. 

Those Kings together did devise 

To make the Christian knight away — 

* In our ancestors' days, orchard appears to have been the term for a large 
pleasure-garden, laid out in alleys and grass plots, with arbours and knots of 
flowers ; and at the same time furnished with abundance of fruit-trees of 
various 'kinds;— a much more pleasant place, it is likely, than the more 
regular and ornamented inclosures now in use. We meet with perpetual 
instances of this expression in our ancient poets :— 

« 'Tis given out, that sleeping in mine orchard, 
A serpent stung me." Hamlet, i. v. 



lob ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 

With letters him in courteous wise, 
They straightway sent to Persia : 
But wrote to the Sophy him to kill, 
And treacherously his blood to spill.* 

Thus they for good did him reward 

With evil, and most subtilly, 
By such vile means they had regard 

To work his death most cruelly ; 
Who, as through Persia land he rode, 
With zeal destroyed each idol god. 

For which offence he straight was thrown 

Into a dungeon dark and deep, 
Where, when he thought his wrongs upon, 

He bitterly did wail and weep : 
Yet, like a knight of courage stout, 
At length his way he digged out. 

Three grooms of the King of Persia, 
By night, this valiant champion slew, 

Though he had fasted many a day ; 
And then away from thence he flew, 

On the best steed the Sophy had ; 

Which, when he knew, he- was full mad. 

* The classical reader will remember the story of Bellerophon,— Horn. 
II. vi. 168,— from whence, perhaps, this idea was originally borrowed. 

To Lycia, the devoted youth he sent, 

With tablets sealed, that told his dire intent. 

Now, bless'd by every power who guards the good, 

The chief arriv'd at Xanthus' silver flood : 

There Lycia's Monarch paid him honours due : 

Nine days he feasted, and nine bulls he slew. 

But when the tenth bright morning orient glow'd, 

The faithful youth his monarch's mandates shew'd. 

The fatal tablets, till that instant seal'd, 

The deathful secret to the king reveal'd. 

Pope. 



ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 139 

Towards Christendom he made his flight, 

But met a Giant by the way, 
With whom a combat he did fight 

Most valiantly a summer's day : 
Who yet, for all his bats of steel, 
Was forced the sting of death to feel. 

Back over the seas with many bands 

Of warlike soldiers soon he past; 
Vowing upon those heathen lands, 

To work revenge, — which at the last, 
Ere thrice three years were gone and spent, 
He wrought unto his heart's content. 

Save only Egypt land he spared, 

For Sabra bright her only sake, 
And, ere for her he had regard, 

He meant a trial kind to make. 
Meanwhile the King overcome in field, 
Unto St. George did quickly yield. 

Then straight Morocco's King he slew, 

And took fair Sabra to his wife, 
But meant to try if she were true, 

Ere with her he would lead his life. 
And though he had her in his train, 
She did a virgin pure remain. 

Toward England then, that lovely dame 
The brave St. George conducted straight : 

An eunuch also with them came, 
Who did upon the lady wait. 

These three from Egypt went alone — 

Now mark, St. George's valour shewn. 

When as they in a forest were, 

The lady did desire to rest; 
Meanwhile St. George to kill a deer, 

For their repast did think it best — 



140 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 

Leaving her with the eunuch there, 
Whilst he did go to kill the deer. 

But, lo ! all in his absence came 
Two hungry lions, fierce and fell, 

And tore the eunuch on the same 
In pieces small, the truth to tell ; 

Down by the lady then they laid, 

Whereby this shewed she was a maid. 

But when he came from hunting back, 
And did behold this heavy chance, 

Then for his lovely virgin's sake, 
His courage straight he did advance, 

And came into the lions' sight ; 

Who ran at him with all their might. 

Their rage did him no whit dismay, 
Who, like a stout and valiant knight, 

Did both the hungry lions slay, 
Within the lady Sabra's sight, 

Who all the while, sad and demure, 

There stood most like a virgin pure. 

Now, when St. George did surely know 
The lady was a virgin true, 

His heart was glad that erst was woe, 
And all his love did soon renew ; 

He set her on a palfrey steed, 

And towards England came with speed. 

Where having in short space arrived 

Unto his native dwelling place ; 
Therein with his dear love he lived, 

And fortune did his nuptials grace. 
They many years of joy did see, 
And led their lives at Coventry. 
Percy. 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 



In the year 1511, the father of this Knight having suffered at sea 
from the Portuguese, obtained letters of marque from James V., 
for his two sons, to make reprisals on the ships of that nation ; and 
under cover of this, they are said to have committed depredations 
on the English subjects ; it is not improbable that it was by con- 
nivance of the Scottish Court. The Earl of Surrey was at that time 
president at the council-board, where he was constantly annoyed by 
complaints from the English merchants, of Sir Andrew Barton's 
piracies. On these complaints being coldly received by Henry VIII., 
who was averse to a rupture with Scotland, the Earl, with generous 
warmth, offered to equip two ships at his own expense, and that these 
should be commanded by his sons, Sir Thomas and Sir Edward Howard. 
This offer was accepted, and two ships were immediately fitted out 
and put to sea, under letters of marque, which, after meeting with 
much foul weather, encountered the two ships of Sir Andrew Barton, 
when Sir Thomas attacked the Lion, commanded by Sir Andrew 
himself, and Sir Edward attacked the other ship, the " Union/' or 
otherwise, " The Bark of Scotland." After a desperate conflict, 
and the death of Sir Andrew, the two ships were captured, and, with 
their crews, carried into the Thames. The indignation excited in 
King's James's mind by this exploit, is said to have been a material 
incitement to that expedition which ended in the fatal battle of 
Flodden. 

Dr. Percy considers this ballad, in its present state, to have been 
written in the time of Elizabeth ; and, admitting that it contains 
some few deviations from the truth of history, he notices that it com- 
prehends some lesser facts, omitted in the Chronicles, which he con- 
ceives to be real circumstances, more especially as one of them, 
which appears most unlikely, is confirmed by testimony; viz. there 
being, before this capture, only one ship of war in the royal navy of 
England. 



When Flora with her fragrant flowers 
Bedecked the earth so trim and gay, 

And Neptune with his dainty showers 
Came to present the month of May, 



142 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 



King Henry rode to take the air ; 

Over the river of Thames past he, * 
When eighty merchants of London came, 

And down they knelt upon their knee. 

! ye are welcome, rich Merchants, 
Good Sailors, welcome unto me. 

They swore by the rood, they were sailors good, 
But rich merchants they could not be : 

To France nor Flanders dare we pass, 
Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare, 

And all for a rover that lies on the seas, 
Who robs us of our merchants' ware. 

King Henry frowned, and turned him round, 

And swore by the Lord that was mickle of might, 

1 thought he had not been in the world 
Durst have wrought England such unright. 

The merchants sighed, and said, Alas ! 

And thus they did their answer frame : 
He is a proud Scot, that robs on the seas, 

And Sir Andrew Barton is his name, 

The King looked over his left shoulder, 

And an angry look then looked he : 
Have I never a Lord in all my realm 

Will fetch yon traitor unto me ? 
Yea, that dare I, Lord Howard says, — 

Yea, that dare I with heart and hand ; 
If it please your Grace to give me leave, 

Myself will be the only man. 

* Mr. Ritson has published a version of this ballad, rather different, and at 
the same time inferior in consequence of his using a common printed copy, 
whereas Dr. Percy improved his, by comparing it with a MS. In this 
place, the former copy says — 

" Unto a mountain top, also, 

Did walk some pleasure for to see." 
Probably intended to mean the hill, in Greenwich Park. 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

Thou art but young, the King replied, 

Yon Scot hath numbered many a year. 
Trust me, my liege, I'll make him quail, 

Or before my Prince I will never appear. 
Then bowmen and gunners thou shalt have, 

And choose them over my realm so free, 
Besides good mariners and ship-boys, 

To guide the Great Ship on the sea. 

The first man that Lord Howard chose 

Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, 
Though he was threescore years and ten, 

Good Peter Simon was his name. 
Peter, says he, I must to the sea, 

To bring home a traitor, ' live or dead, 
Before all others I have chosen thee, 
Of a hundred gunners to be at the head. 

If you, my Lord, have chosen me, 

Of a hundred gunners to be the head, 
Then hang me up on your main-mast tree, 

If I miss my mark one shilling braid. * 
My Lord then chose a bowman rare, 

Whose active hands had gain'd liim fame , 
In Yorkshire was this gentleman born, 

And William Horseley was his name. 

Horseley, said he, I must with speed 

Go seek a traitor on the sea ; 
And now, of a hundred bowmen brave 

To be the head I have chosen thee. 
If you, quoth he, have chosen me, 

Of a hundred bowmen to be the head, 
On your main-mast I'll hanged be, 

If I miss twelvescore f one penny braid. 

Or brede, breadth. 

At the distance of twelve score paces. 



143 



144 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

With pikes and guns, and bowmen bold, 

The noble Howard is gone to sea, 
With a valiant heart and a pleasant cheer, 

Out at Thames' mouth sailed he. 
And days he scant had sailed three, 

Upon the voyage he took in hand, 
But there he met with a noble ship, 

And stoutly made it stay and stand. 

Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said, 

Now who thou art, and what 's thy name, 
And show me where thy dwelling is, 

And whither bound, and whence thou came. 
My name is Henry Hunt, quoth he, — 

With a heavy heart and a careful mind ; 
I and my ship do both belong 

To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne. 

Hast thou not heard, now, Henry Hunt, 

As thou hast sailed by day and by night, 
Of a Scottish rover on the seas, 

Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight ? 
Then ever he sighed, and said, Alas ! 

With a grieved mind and well away, — 
But over well I know that wight ; — 

I was his prisoner yesterday. 

As I was sailing upon the sea, 

A Bourdeaux voyage for to fare, 
To his hatch-board he clasped me, 

And robbed me of all my merchant-ware. 
And mickle debts, God wot! I owe, 

And every man will have his own, 
And I am now to London bound, 

Of our gracious King to beg a boon. 

That shall not need, Lord Howard says, 
Let me but once that robber see : 



145 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

For every penny ta'en thee fro, 

It shall be doubled shillings three. — 

Now God forefend, the merchant said, 
That you should seek so far amiss ; 

God keep you out of that traitor's hands, 
Full little ye wot what a man he is ! 

He is brass within, and steel without, 

With beams in his top-castle strong, 
And eighteen pieces of ordinance 

He carries on each side along — 
And he hath a pinnace deerly dight, 

St. Andrew's cross, that is his guide, 
His pinnace beareth ninescore men, 

And fifteen cannons on each side. 

Were ye twenty ships, and he but one, 

I swear by kirk and bower and hall, 
He would overcome them every one, 

If once his beams they do down fall. 
This is cold comfort, said my lord, 

To welcome a stranger thus to sea; 
Yet I'll bring him and his ship to shore, 

Or to Scotland he shall cany me ! 

Then a noble gunner you must have, 

And he must aim well with his ee, 
And sink his pinnace into the sea, 

Or else he never o'ercome will be. 
And, if you chance his ship to board, 

This counsel I must give withal, 
Let no man to his top-castle go, 

To strive to let his beams down fall.* 



* Dr. Percy thinks that the mode of defence here alluded to, \v;ts tiie 
relic of an ancient invention of the Romans, called Dolphins, which were 
heavy weights of lead or iron, or, in the present instance, beams, suspended 
H 



146 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

And seven pieces of ordinance, 

I pray your Honour lend to me, 
On each side of my ship along, 

And I will lead you on the sea — 
A glass I'll set, that maybe seen, 

Whether you sail by day or night ; 
And to-morrow, I swear, by nine of the clock, 

You shall meet with Sir Andrew Barton, knight 



by ropes to the main-top-mast. On an enemy's ship being brought close 
alongside, the ropes were cut, and the beams falling on the deck of the 
hostile ship, with great force, either sunk or materially damaged it. 



SIR ANDREW BARTON 



PART II. 



The Merchant set my Lord a glass, 

So well apparent in his sight, 
And on the morrow, hy nine of the clock, 

He shewed him Sir Andrew Barton, knight. 
His hatchboard it was gilt with gold, 

So dearly dight it dazzled the ee — 
Now, by my faith ! Lord Howard says, 

This is a gallant sight to see. 

Take in your ancyents,* standards eke, 

So close that no man may them see, 
And put me forth a white willow wand, 

As merchants use to sail the sea. 
But they stirred neither top nor mast,f 

Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by. 
What English churls are yonder, he said, 

That can shew so little courtesy ? 

Now, by the rood! three years and more, 
I have been Admiral over the sea, 

* An old term for a flag, whence the officer who bore the colours, and 
who is now styled ensign, was termed ancient. 

t Did not lower their topsails, in sign of saluting. 



148 SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

And never an English, nor Portingall, 
Without my leave can pass this way : 

Then called he forth his stout pinnace — - 
Fetch back yon pedlars now to me ; 

I swear by the mass, yon English churls 
Shall all hang at my mainmast tree. 

With that, the pinnace it shot ofF, — 

Full well Lord Howard might it ken, 
For it stroke down my Lord's foremast, 

And killed fourteen of his men! 
Come hither, Simon, says my Lord, 

Look that the word be true thou said, 
For at my mainmast thou shalt hang, 

If thou miss thy mark one shilling braid. 

Simon was old, but his heart it was bold, 

His ordinance he laid right low, 
He put in chain full nine yards long, 

With other great shot, less and moe;* 
And he let go his great-gun's shot, 

So well he settled it with his ee, 
The first sight that Sir Andrew saw, 

He see his pinnace sink in the sea ! 

And when he saw his pinnace sunk, 

Lord! how his heart with rage did swell : 
Now cut my ropes, it 's time to be gone, 

I'll fetch yon pedlars back my sell. 
When my Lord saw Sir Andrew loose, 

Within his heart he was full fain, — 
Now spread your ancients — strike up drums, 

Sound all your trumpets out amain. 

Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew says, 
We all, however, this geer will sway, 

It 's my Lord Admiral of England 
Is come to seek me on the sea. 

* More. 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 



149 



Simon had a son who shot right well, 

That did Sir Andrew mickle scare ; 
In at his deck he gave a shot, 

Killed threescore of his men of w r ar. 

Then Henry Hunt, with vigour hot, 

Came bravely on the other side, 
Soon he drove down his foremast tree, 

And killed fourscore men beside. 
Now, out alas ! Sir Andrew cried, 

What may a man now think or say, 
Yonder merchant thief, that pierceth me, 

He was my prisoner yesterday. 

Come hither to me, thou Gordon good, 

That aye wast ready at my call, 
I will give thee three hundred marks 

If thou wilt let my beams down fall. 
Lord Howard he then called in haste, — 

Horseley, see thou be true in stead, 
For thou shalt at the mainmast hang, 

If thou miss twelvescore one penny braid. 

Then Gordon swarved* the mainmast tree — 

He swarved it with might and main ; 
But Horseley with a bearing arrow, 

Stroke the Gordon through the brain — 
And he fell unto the hatches again, 

And sore his deadly wound did bleed : 
Then word went through Sir Andrew's men, 

How that the Gordon he was dead. 

Come hither to me, James Hambilton, 

Thou art my only sister's son, 
If thou Avilt let my beams down fall, 

Six hundred nobles thou hast won — 

* Climbed — in the same manner as the trunk of a tree. Qicery— Wiiere 
there no rope ladders'? 



150 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

With that, he swarved the main-mast tree, — 

He swarved it with nimble art, 
But Horseley with a broad arrow 

Pierced the Hambilton through the heart. 

And down he fell upon the deck, 

That with his blood did stream amain ; 
Then every Scot cried, Well away ! 

Alas ! a comely youth is slain ! 
All woe-begone was Sir Andrew then, 

With grief and rage his heart did swell, — 
Go, fetch me forth my armour of proof, 

For I will to the top- castle mysell. 

Go, fetch me forth my armour of proof, 

That gilded is with gold so clear : 
God be with my brother John of Barton ! 

Against the Portingalls he it wear ; 
And when he had on this armour of proof, 

He was a gallant sight to see, — 
Ah ! ne'er didst thou meet with living wight, 

My dear brother, could cope with thee. 

Come hither, Horseley, says my Lord, 

And look your shaft that it go right ; 
Shoot a good shoot in time of need, 

And for it thou shalt be made a Knight. 
I'll shoot my best, quoth Horseley then, 

Your Honour shall see, with might and main 
But if I were hanged at your main-mast, 

I have now left but arrows twain. 

Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree, — 
With right good will he swarved then, 

Upon his breast did Horseley hit, 
But the arrow bounded back again ! 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 



151 



Then Horseley spied a privy place, 
With a perfect eye, in a secret part, — 

Under the spole of his right arm, 
He smote Sir Andrew to the heart 

Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew says, 

A little I'm hurt, but yet not slain : 
I'll but lie down and bleed a-while, 

And then I'll rise and fight again. 
Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew says. 

And never flinch before the foe ; 
And stand fast by St. Andrew's cross, 

Until you hear my whistle blow. 

They never heard his whistle blow, 

Which made their hearts wax sore a-dread 
Then Horseley said, Aboard, my Lord, 

For well I wot Sir Andrew's dead. 
They boarded then his noble ship, — 

They boarded it with might and main : 
Eighteen score Scots alive they found, 

The rest were either maimed or slain. 

Lord Howard took a sword in his hand, 

And off he smote Sir Andrew's head, — 
I must have left England many a day, 

If thou wert alive as thou art dead. 
He caused his body to be cast 

Over the hatch-board into the sea ; 
And about his middle three hundred crowns ;- 

Where'er thou land, this will bury thee. 

Thus from the wars Lord Howard came, 
And back he sailed o'er the main, — 

With mickle joy and triumphing, 
Into Thames' mouth he came again. 



152 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 



Lord Howard then a letter wrote, 
And sealed it with a seal and ring, — 

Such a noble prize have I brought to your Grace, 
As never did subject to a King. 

Sir Andrew's ship I bring with me, — 

A braver ship was never none : 
Now hath your Grace two ships of war, — 

Before in England was but one.* 
King Henry's Grace, with royal cheer 

Welcomed the noble Howard home, — 
And where, said he, is this rover stout, 

That I myself may give the doom ? 

The rover he is safe, my Liege, 

Full many a fathom in the sea ; 
If he were alive as he is dead, 

I must have left England many a day. 
And your Grace may thank four men in the ship, 

For the victory we have won : 
These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt, 

And Peter Simon, and his son. 

To Henry Hunt, the King then said, 

In lieu of what was from thee ta'en, 
A noble a-day now thou shalt have, — 

Sir Andrew's jewels, and his chain. 
And Horseley, thou shalt be a Knight, 

And lands and livings shalt have store ; 

* This is an instance which Dr. Percy has alleged in confirmation of the 
authenticity of this ballad ; the account being confirmed by historical record. 
Seven years before, in the year 1504 (19th Hen. VII. ), was built the Great 
Harry, at the expense of 14,000L ; which was, in fact, as Hume observes, 
the first beginning, at that period, of an armed royal navy; before which, 
the King was accustomed to hire ships from the merchants. Of this ship, the 
Great Harry, otherwise " Harry Grace a Dieu," the Editor has somewhere 
seen a painting, in which it appears to have had four masts, — he believes in 
the hall of Greenwich Hospital. 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

Howard shall be Earl Surrey * hight, 
As Howards, erst, have been before. 

Now, Peter Simon, thou art old, — 

I will maintain thee and thy son : f 
And the men shall have five hundred marks, 

For the good service they have done. 
Then in came the Queen, with Ladies fair, 

To see Sir Andrew Barton, knight : 
They weened that he were brought on shore, 

And thought to have seen a gallant sight. 

But when they see his deadly face, 

And eyes so hollow in his head, — 
I would give, quoth the King, a thousand marks, 

This man were alive as he is dead. 
Yet for the manful part he played, 

Which fought so well with heart and hand, — 
His men shall have twelve pence a-day, 

Till they come to my brother King's high laud. 



153 



* Father to the noble Poet ; and, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, Lord 
High Admiral at the time of the Spanish Armada, ■when his services proved 
very valuable. 

+ In Mr. Ritsou's copy, the sums are specified; — a crou-n a-day to Peter 
Simon, and half-acrown to his son; and to the sailors, seven shillings each, 
(or more probably, a noble, — 6s. 8d.). At this rate, in the division of five 
hundred marks, there would have been one thousand men. This bountv, 
even if we multiply it twenty times, to correspond with the present da> , 
Uoes not seem very munificent. 

H 2 



BALLAD, 



ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS MARGARET, 

(DAUGHTER OF HENRY VII.), TO JAMES IV. 

OF SCOTLAND. 

1503. 



O fair ! fairest of every fair ! 
Princess, most pleasant and preclare, 
The lustiest alive that been ; — 
Welcome to Scotland to be Queen ! 

Young tender plant of pulchritude, 
Descended of imperial blood ! 
Fresh pageant flower of fairhood sheen ! 
Welcome, of Scotland to be Queen ! 

Sweet lusty* imp of beauty clear ! 
Most mighty King's daughter dear, 
Born of a princess most serene ; — 
Welcome, of Scotland to be Queen ! 

Welcome the Rose, both Red and White ! 
Welcome, the flower of our delight ! 
Our spirit rejoicing from the spleen ; — 
Welcome ! of Scotland to be Queen ! 

Evans. 

* This did not, at that time, imply what would now be called en bon point; 
it was intended to express perfect vigour and health, both of mind and body ; 
and was therefore applicable to the slightest and most graceful proportions. 



JOHNNY ARMSTRONGS 
GOOD-NIGHT. 



The hero of the following ballad lived in Westmoreland, near the 
river Ewse ; and subsisted, himself, and a large body of men, by levy- 
ing contributions and tribute on his neighbours, both Scotch and 
English; — he was, in short, a moss-trooper. James V. raised a 
small army, and encamped near the river Ewse, with the purpose of 
destroying the banditti ; when John Armstrong, being aware of his 
danger, held a converse with some of the king's officers, who per- 
suaded him to make his submission, assuring him of a favourable 
reception. He accordingly set out, with an attendance of sixty men 
unarmed, and, anticipating no hostility, neglected to provide passes 
and a safe conduct ; when these treacherous advisers laid an ambush 
for him, and carried him and his men to the king as prisoners, 
where they not only denounced him for the offences he had actually 
committed, but added a false accusation, — that he had plotted to de- 
liver up that part of the country to the English. On this deceptive 
suggestion, and from this instance of truly Punic faith, the unhappy 
man was hanged, with fifty-four of his companions; the remaining 
six being retained as hostages. Mr. Evans observes, that the author 
of the ballad has thought proper to elevate the catastrophe of his 
hero, by causing him to die in fight, assigning to him eight score 
attendants, instead of three, and laying the scene in Edinburgh ; 
which are the only deviations from the truth of history. This ballad 
is a standard and popular one. 



Is there never a man in all Scotland, 

From the highest estate to the lowest degree, 

That can shew himself before our King, 
Scotland is so full of treachery ? 



156 



JOHNNY ARMSTRONG S GOOD-NIGHT. 

Yes ! there is a man in Westmoreland, 

And Johnny Armstrong they do him call ; . 

He has no lands or rents coming in, 

Yet he keeps eightscore men within his hall. 

He has horses and harness for them all, 

And goodly steeds that be milk white, 
With their goodly belts about their necks, 

With their hats and feathers all alike. 

The King he writes a loving letter, 

And with his own hand so tenderly — 
And hath sent it unto Johnny Armstrong, 

To come and speak with him speedily. 

When John he looked this letter upon, 

He looked as blithe as a bird in a tree : 
I was never before a king in my life, — - 

My father, my grandfather ; not one of us three. 

But seeing we must go before the king, 

Lord ! — we will go most gallantly ; 
Ye shall every one have a velvet coat, 

Laid down with golden laces three. 

And every one shall have a scarlet cloak, 

Laid down with silver laces five ; 
With your golden belts about your necks, 

With hats and feathers all alike. 

But when Johnny went from Gillnock-hall, 

The wind it blew hard, and full fast it did rain, — 

Now fare thee well, thou Gillnock-hall, 
I fear I shall never see thee again. 

Now Johnny he is to Edinborough gone, 

With his eightscore men so gallantly; 
And every one of them on a milk-white steed, 

With their swords and bucklers hanging to their knee. 



JOHNNY ARMSTRONG S GOOD-NIGHT. 

But when John came the King before, 
With his eightscore men so gallant to see; 

The king he moved his bonnet to him, 

He thought he had been a king as well as he ! 

pardon, pardon, my sovereign liege, 
Pardon for my eightscore men and me ; 

For my name it is Johnny Armstrong, 
And subject of yours, my liege, said he. 

Away with thee, thou false traitor, 

No pardon will I grant to thee ; 
But to-morrow morning by eight of the clock, 

I will hang up thy eightscore men and thee. 

Then Johnny looked over his left shoulder, 
And to his merry men thus said he, — 

1 have asked grace of a graceless face, 
No pardon there is for you and me. 

Then Johnny pulled out his good broad-sword, 
That was made of the mettle so free : 

Had not the King moved his foot as he did, 
John had taken his head from his fair body. 

Come, follow me, my merry men all, 

We will scorn one foot for to fly; 
It shall never be said we were hanged like dogs — 

We will fight it out most manfully. 

Then they fought on like champions bold, 
For their hearts were sturdy, stout, and free, 

Till they had killed all the King's good guard ; 
There were now left alive but one, two, or three. 

But then rose up all Edinborough, 

They rose up by thousands three ; 
A cowardly Scot came John behind, 

And run him through the fair body. 



157 



158 



JOHNNY ARMSTRONG S GOOD-NIGHT. 

Said John, Fight on, my merry men all, 
I am a little wounded, but am not slain ; 

I will lay me down and bleed awhile, 
Then I'll rise and fight again. 

Then they fought on like madmen all, 
Till many a man lay dead on the plain ; 

For they were resolved before they would yield, 
That every man would there be slain. 

So there they fought courageously, 

Till most of them dead lay there and slain ; 

But little Musgrave, that was his foot page, 
With his bonny grissel got away unta'en. 

But when he came to Gillnock-hall, 

The Lady 'spied him presently ; 
What news, what news, thou little foot-page, 

What news from thy master and his company ? 

My news is bad, Lady, he said, 

Which I do bring, as you may see : 

My master, Johnny Armstrong, is slain, 
And all his gallant company. 

" Yet thou art welcome home, my bonny grissel, 
Full oft thou hast been fed with corn and hay ; 

But now thou shalt be fed with bread and wine, 
And thy sides shall be spurred no more, I say." 

O then bespake his little son, 

As he sat on his nurse's knee : 
" If ever I live to be a man, 

My Father's death revenged shall be !" 

Evans. 



THE CHILD OF ELLE 



Several stanzas of this old Ballad being wanting in Dr. Percy's 
Manuscript Copy, he has supplied them, with his usual elegance. — 
Child, in the old Romances, was a common term for a young 
knight. 



On yonder hill a castle stands, 
With walls and towers bedight, 

And yonder lives the Child of Elle, 
A young and comely knight. 

The Child of Elle to his garden went, 

And stood at his garden pale, 
When, lo ! he beheld fair Emmeline's page 

Come tripping down the dale. 

The Child of Elle he hied Him thence, 

I wis he stood not still, 
And soon he met fair Emmeline's page 

Come climbing up the hill. 

Now, Christ thee save, thou little foot-page, 
Now Christ thee save and see ! 

O tell me how does thy lady gay, 
And what may the tidings be ? 

My lady she is all woe-begone, 

And the tears they fall from her eyne ; 

And aye she laments the deadly feud 
Between her house and thine. 



160 



" THE CHILD OF ELLE. 

And here she sends thee a silken scarf, 

Bedewed with many a tear, 
And bids thee sometimes think on her, 

Who loved thee so dear. 

And here she sends thee a ring of gold, 

The last boon thou mayest have, 
And bids thee wear it for her sake, 

When she is laid in grave. 

For ah ! her gentle heart is broke, 

And in grave soon must she be, 
Sith her father hath chose her a new love, 

And forbid her to think of thee. 

Her father hath brought her a churlish knight, 

Sir John of the North country ; 
And within three days she must him wed, 

Or he vows he will her slay. 

Now hie thee back, thou little foot-page, 

And greet thy lady from me : 
And tell her that I, her own true love, 

Will die or set her free. 

Now hie thee back, thou little foot-page, 

And let thy fair lady know, 
This night I will be at her bower-window, 

Betide me weal or woe. 

The boy he tripped, the boy he ran, 

He neither stint nor stayed, 
Until he came to fair Emmeline's bower, 

When kneeling down, he said, 

O lady, I've been with thy own true love, 

And he greets thee well by me ; 
This night will he be at thy bower window, 

And die or set thee free. 



THE CHILD OF LLLE. 

Now day was gone, and night was come, 

And all were fast asleep, — 
All, save the Lady Emmeline, 

Who sat in her bower to weep. 

And soon she heard her true lover's voice 
Low whispering at the wall, — 

Awake, awake, my dear Lady ! 
Tis I, thy true love, call. 

Awake, awake, my Lady dear ! 

Come mount this fair palfrey : 
This ladder of ropes will let thee down, 

I'll carry thee hence away. 

Now nay, now nay, thou gentle Knight, 

Now nay, this may not he ; 
For aye should I tint my maiden fame, 

If alone I should wend with thee. 

O lady, thou with a knight so true 

May'st safely wend alone ; 
To my lady mother I will thee bring, 

Where marriage shall make us one. 

My father is a Baron bold, 

Of lineage proud and high, 
And what would he say if his daughter 

Away with a knight should fly ? 

Ah ! well I wot, he never would rest, 
Nor his meat should do him no good, 

Till he had slain thee, Child of Elle ! 
And seen thy dear heart's blood. 

lady, wert thou in thy saddle set, 
And a little space him fro, 

1 would not care for thy cruel father, 

Nor the worst that he could do. 



16 



162 



THE CHILD OF ELLE. 

lady, wert thou in thy saddle set, 
And once without this wall ; 

1 would not care for thy cruel father, 
Nor the worst that might befall. 

Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 

And aye her heart was woe : 
At length he seized her lily-white hand, 

And down the ladder he drew. 

And thrice he clasped her to his breast, 

And kissed her tenderly : 
The tears that fell from her fair eyes, 

Ran like the fountain free. 

He mounted himself on his steed so tall, 

And her on a fair palfrey ; 
And slung his bugle about his neck ; 

And roundly they rode away. 

All this beheard her own damsel, 

In her bed whereas she lay. 
Quoth she, My lord shall know of this, 

So I shall have gold and fee. 

Awake, awake, thou Baron bold ! 

Awake, my noble dame ! 
Your daughter has fled with the Child of Elle, 

To do the deed of shame. 

The Baron he woke, the Baron he rose, 

And called his merry men all : 
And come thou forth, Sir John the Knight, 

The lady is carried to thrall. 

Fair Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, — 

A mile forth of the town, 
When she was aware of her father's men 

Come galloping over the down. 



THE CHILD OF ELLE. 



163 



And foremost came the carlish Knight, 
Sir John of the North country ; 

Now stop, now stop, thou false traitor ! 
Nor carry that lady away. 

For she is come of high lineage, 

And was of a lady born, 
And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's son, 

To carry her hence to scorn. 

Now, loud thou liest, Sir John the Knight, 

Now thou dost lie of me ; 
A knight me got, and a lady me bore — 

So never did none by thee. 

But light now down, my lady fair ! 

Light down, and hold my steed, 
While I and this discourteous knight 

Do try this arduous deed. 

But light now down, my dear lady ! 

Light down, and hold my horse, 
While I and this discourteous knight 

Do tiy our valour's force, 

Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 

And aye her heart was woe, 
While 'twixt her love and the carlish knight, 

Past many a baleful blow. 

The Child of Elle he fought so well, 
As his weapon he waved amain, 

That soon he had slain the carlish knight, 
And laid him upon the plain. 

And now the Baron and all his men, 

Full fast approached nigh : 
Ah ! what may Lady Emmeline do ? 

'T were now no boot to fly. 



164 



THE CHILD OF ELLE. 

Her lover he put his horn to his mouth, 

And blew both loud and shrill ; 
And soon he saw his own merry men 

Come riding over the hill. 

Now hold thy hand, thou bold Baron, 

I pray thee, hold thy hand ; 
Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts, 

Fast knit in true-love's band. 

Thy daughter I have dearly loved 

Full long, and many a day, — 
But with such love as holy Church 

Hath freely said we may. 

O give consent she may be mine, 

And bless a faithful pair ; 
My lands and livings are not small, 

My house and lineage fair : 

My mother she was an Earl's daughter ; 

A noble knight my sire. 
The Baron he frowned, and turned away, 

With mickle dole and ire. 

Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 

And did all trembling stand : 
At length she sprang upon her knee, 

And held his lifted hand. * 

Pardon, my Lord and father dear, 
This fair young Knight and me : 

Trust me, but for the carlish Knight, 
I ne'er had fled from thee. 

Oft have you called your Emmeline 

Your darling and your joy : 
O, let not, then, your harsh resolves 

Your Emmeline destroy ! 

* See Frontispiece. 






THE CHILD OF ELLE. 

The Baron he stroked his dark-brown cheek, 

And turned his head aside, 
To wipe away the starting tear 

He proudly strove to hide. 

In deep revolving thought he stood, 

And mused a little space ; 
Then raised fair Emmeline from the ground, 

With many a fond embrace. 

Here! take her, Child of Elle, he said; 

And gave her lily white hand, — 
Here, take my dear and only child, 

And with her, half my land. 

Thy father once mine honour wronged, 

In days of youthful pride : 
Do thou the injury repair, 

In fondness for thy bride ! 

And as thou love, and hold her dear, 
Heaven prosper thee and thine ! 

And now my blessing wend with thee, 
My lovely Emmeline ! 
Percy. 



165 



HARDYKNUTE. 



This celebrated and beautiful ballad first appeared anonymously 
in 1719. The date of the story refers to 1263 ; when Haco, king of 
Norway, made a descent on Scotland, and was defeated. Like 
many other beautiful compositions, it is, however, a modern forgery ; 
and has been ascertained to be either the production of Lady 
Wardlaw, or of Sir John Nichols, who made use of her interven- 
tion in its publication. A second part, by Mr. Pinkerton, was 
published in 1781 ; which is inferior, upon the whole, but shews 
much ingenuity in seizing on a prominent point to establish a con- 
nexion between the two. 



Stately stept he east the Ha', 

And stately stept he west ; 
Full seventy years he now had seen, 

With scarce seven years of rest : 
He lived when Britons' breach of faith 

Wrought Scotland mickle woe, 
And aye his sword told to their cost, 

He was their deadly foe. 



High on a hill his Castle stood, 
Wi' halls and towers aheight, 

And goodly chambers fair to see, 
Where he lodged many a knight. 



HARDYKXUTE. 

His dame, so peerless once, and fair, 
For chaste, and beauty, sheen, 

No marrow * had in all the land- 
Save Emergard the Queen. 

Full thirteen sons to him she bare, 

All men of valour stout ; 
In bloody fight, wi' sword in hand, 

Nine lost their lives no doubt. 
Four yet remained ; long mote they live 

To stand by liege and land ! 
High was their fame, high was their might, 

And high was their command. 

Great love they bare to Fairly fair, 

Their sister soft and dear, 
Her girdle show'd her middle jimp, 

And golden glist her hair. 
What woeful woe her beauty bred ! 

Woeful to young and old ; 
Woeful I trow to kith and kin, 

As story ever told. 

The King of Norse, in summer tide, 

Puft up with power and might, 
Landed in fair Scotland the isle, 

With many a hardy knight. 
The tidings to our good Scot's King 

Came as he sat at dine, 
With noble chiefs, in brave array, 

Drinking the blood-red wine. 

To horse, to horse, my royal liege ! 

Your foes stand on the strand ; 
Full twenty thousand glittering spears 

The Chiefs of Norse command. 
* Equal. 



167 



168 



HARDYKNUTE. 

Bring me my steed Madge dapple grey. 

Our good king rose and cried: 
A trustier beast in all the land 

A Scot's King never did ride. 

Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, 

Who lives on hill so high, 
To draw his sword, the dread of foes ! 

And haste and follow me. 
The little page flew swift as dart 

Flung by his master's arm ; 
Come down, come down, Lord Hardyknute, 

And rid your King from harm. 

Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, 

So did his dark-brown brow ; 
His looks grew keen as they were wont 

In danger great to do. 
He has ta'en a horn as green as grass, 

And given five sounds so shrill, 
That trees in green-wood shook thereat, 

So loud rang ilka hill. 

His sons in manly sport and glee 

Had past the summer's morn ; 
When lo ! down in a grassy dale 

They heard their father's horn. 
That horn, quoth they, ne'er sounds in peace, 

We've other sport to bide ; 
And soon they hied them up the hill, 

And soon were at his side. 

Late yestere'en, I ween'd in peace 

To end my lengthened life ; 
My age might well excuse my arm 

From manly feats of strife : 



HARDYKNUTE. 

But now that Norse does proudly boast 

Fair Scotland to enthrall, 
It 's ne'er be said of Hardyknute, 

He feared to fight or fall. 

Robin of Rothsay bend thy bow; 

Thy arrows shoot so leil, 
That many a comely countenance 

They 've turned to deadly pale. 
Brave Thomas, take ye but your lance, 

Ye need nae weapons mair, 
If ye fight with it as ye did once, 

'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir. 

And Malcolm, light of foot as stag 

That runs in forest wild, 
Get me my thousands three of men 

Well bred to sword and shield : 
Bring me my horse and harnisine, 

My blade of metal clear; 
If foes but kenn'd the hand it bare, 

They soon had fled for fear. 

Farewell, my dame, so peerless good, — 

And took her by the hand ; 
Fairer to me in age you seem, 

Than maids for beauty famed : 
My youngest son shall here remain, 

To guard these stately towers, 
And shoot the silver bolt that keeps 

So fast your painted bowers. 

And first she wet her comely cheeks, 
And then her bodice green : 

The silken cords of twirtle twist 
Were plait with silver sheen ; 



169 



170 



HARDYKNUTE. 

And apron set with many a dyce 

Of needle-work so rare, 
Wove by no hand, as ye may guess, 

Save that of Fairly fair. 

And he has ridden o'er moor and moss, 

O'er hills and many a glen, 
When he came to a wounded knight, 

Making a heavy moan : 
Here maun I lie, here maun I die, 

By treachery's false guiles ; 
Witless I was, that ere gave faith 

To wicked woman's smiles. 

Sir Knight, if ye were in my bower, 

To lean on silken seat, 
My lady's kindly care you'd prove, 

Who never kenn'd deadly hate ; 
Herself would watch you all the day, 

Her maids, at dead of night ; 
And Fairly fair your heart would cheer, 

As^she stands in your sight. 

Arise, young knight, and mount your steed, 

Bright lows the shyning day ; 
Choose from my menzie whom ye please, 

To lead ye on the way. 
With smile-less l&ok, and visage wan, 

The wounded knight replied, — 
Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, 

For here I must abide. 

To me no after day nor night, 

Can e'er be sweet or fair ; 
But soon, beneath some drooping tree, 

Cold death shall end my care. 



IIARDYKNUTE. 

Still him to win strove Hardyknute, 

Nor strove lie long in vain ; 
Short pleading eihtly might prevail, 

Him to his lure to gain. 

I will return with speed, to bide 

Your plaint, and mend your woe : 
But private grudge must ne'er be quelled, 

Before our country's foe. 
Mordac, thy eild may best be spared, 

The fields of strife frae amang ; 
Convey Sir Knight to my abode, 

And nurse his eager pang. 

Now he is gone far yond out-o'er 

Lord Chattan's land so wide ; 
That lord a worthy wight was aye, 

When foes his courage try'd : 
Of Pictish race, by mother's side ; 

When Picts ruled Caledon, 
Lord Chattan claimed the princely maid 

When he saved the Pictish crown. 

Now with his fierce and stalwart train, 

He reached a rising height, 
Where brade encamped on the dale, 

Norse army lay in sight : 
Yonder, my valiant sons, full fierce 

Our raging rovers wait, 
On the unconquered Scottish sward, 

To try with us their fate. 

Make orisons to Him that saved 

Our souls upon the Rood ; 
Then bravely shew your veins are filled 

With Caledonian blood. 



171 



172 



HARDYKNUTE. 

Then forth he drew his trusty glaive, 

While thousands all around, 
Drawn from their sheaths glanced in the sun, 

And loud the bugils sound. 

To join his King, adown the hill 

In haste his march he made, 
While play and pibrochs, minstrels meet, 

Afore him stately strade. 
Thrice welcome, valiant Stay of War, 

Thy nation's shield and pride ! 
Thy king no treason has to fear, 

When thou art by his side, 

When bows were bent, and darts were thrown, 

For throng scarce could they fly ; 
The darts clave arrows as they met, 

Ere foes their dint mote drie. 
Long did they rage, and fought full fierce, 

With little skaith to man ; 
But bloody, bloody was the field, 

Or that long day was done ! 

The King of Scots that scarcely brooked 

The war that looked like play, 
Drew his broad-sword, and brake his bow, 

Since bows seemed but delay. 
Quoth noble Rothsay, Mine I'll keep, 

I wat its bled a score. 
Haste up, my merry men, cried the King, 

As he rode on before. 

The King of Norse he sought to find, 

With him to mense the fight ; 
But a sharp unsonsie shaft there did 

Upon his forehead light : 



HARDYKNUTE. 

As he his hand put up to feel 

The wound, an arrow keen, 
O woeful chance ! there pinned his hand 

In midst, atweene his eyne. 

Revenge ! revenge ! cried Rothsay's heir, 

Your mail-coat shall not bide 
The strength and sharpness of my dart, 

Whilk shone the river's pride. 
Another arrow well he marked, 

It pierced his neck in twa ; 
His hands then caught the silver reins, 

He low as earth did fa'. 

Sore bleeds my liege ! Sore, sore he bleeds ! 

— Again with might he drew, 
And gesture dread his sturdy bow ; 

Fast the broad arrow flew : 
Woe to the knight he ettled * at ; 

Lament now Queen Elgreid ; 
Hire dames to wail your darling's fall, 

His youth, and comely meed. 

Tak aff, tak aff his costly jupe, 

(Of gold well was it twined, 
Knit like the fowler's net, through whilk 

His steely harness shined). 
Bear Norse that gift frae me, and bid 

Him 'venge the blood it wears ; 
Say, if he face my bended bow 

He sure nae weapon fears. 

Proud Norse, with giant body tall, 
Braid shoulder, and arms strong, 

Cry'd, Where is Hardyknute sae famed, 
And fear'd at Britain's throne ? 

* Aimed. 



173 



174 



HARDYKNUTE. 

Though Britons tremble at his name, 

I soon sail make him wail 
That eir my sword was made sae sharp, 

Sae soft his coat of mail. 

That brag his stout heart cou'dna bide, 

It lent him youthfu' might : 
I'm Hardyknute! — this day, he cried, 

To Scotland's king I hight, 
To lay thee low as horse's hoof; 

My word I mean to keep : 
Soon with the first dint, eir he strake, 

He gar'd his body bleed. 

Norse' eyn like grey gosehauk stared wild, 

He sigh'd with shame and spite ; 
Disgraced is now my far-famed arm, 

That left thee power to strike. 
Soon gied his helm a blow sae fell, 

It made him down to stoop, 
Sae low as he to ladies used 

In courtly gyse to lout. 

Full soon he raised his bent body ; 

His bow he marveld sair, 
S'n blows till then on him but dared 
, As touch of Fairly fair. 
Norse ferlied too, as sair as he, 

To see his stately look ; 
Sae sune as eir he strake a foe, 

So soon his life he took. 

Where, like a fire to hether set, 

Bold Thomas did advance, 
A sturdy foe, wi' look enraged, 

Up towards him did prance : 

* Wondered. 



HARDYKNUTE. 

He spurred his steed through thickest ranks, 

The hardy youth to quell ; 
Wha stude unmoovit at his approach, 

His fury to repelL 

That short brown shaft, sae meanly trimm'd, 

Looks like poor Scotland's geir ; 
But dreadfu' seems the rusty point ! 

And loud he laugh in jeir. 
Aft Britons' blude has dimm'd its shine, 

Its point cut short their vaunt — 
Soon pierc'd the boaster's bairded cheek, 

Nae time he took to taunt. 

Short while he in his saddle swang, 

His stirrup was nae stay ; 
But feible hang his unbent knee, 

Sure taken he was fey ! 
Swyth on the harden'd clay he fell, 

Right far was heard the thud ;* 
But Thomas looked not as he lay 

All weltering in his blude. 

Wi' careless gesture, mind unmov'd, 

On rade he, north the plain, 
The same in peace, or fiercest strife, 

Aye reckless, and the same. 
Nor yet his heart dame's dimpled cheek 

Could meise saft love to brook ; 
Till vengefu' Ann returned his scorn, 

Then languid grew his look. 

In throes of death, with weltering cheek, 

All panting on the plain, 
The bleeding corpse of warriors lay, 

Never to rise again. 

* Sound. 



175 



176 



HARDYKNUTE, 

Ne'er to return to native land; 

No more with blithsome sounds, 
To boast the glories of that day, 

And show their shining wounds. 

On Norway's coast the widowed dame 

May wash the rocks with tears, 
May long look over the shipless seas 

Before her mate appears. 
Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain, 

Thy lord lies in the clay ; 
The valiant Scots no rovers thole * 

To carry life away. 

There on a lee, where stands a Cross, 

Set up for monument, 
Thousands fu' fierce, that summer's day, 

Fill'd keen war's black intent. 
Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute, 

Let Norse the name aye dread ; 
Aye, how he fought, aft how he spair'd, 

Sail latest ages read. 

Loud and chill blew the westling wind, 

Sair beat the heavy shower ; 
Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute 

Wan neir his stately tower : 
His touir, that us'd wi' torches blaze 

To shine sae far at night, 
Seim'd now as black as mourning weed : 

Nae marvel sair he sigh'd. 

There's nae light in my lady's bower, 

There's nae light in my ha' ; 
Nae blink shines round my Fairly fair, 

Nae ward stands on my wa'. 

* Suffer. 



HAKDYKNUTE. 



177 



What bodes it ? Robert, Thomas, say ? 

Nae answer fits their dread. 
Stand back, my sons, I'll be your guide !- 

But by they past wi' speed. 

" As fast I hae sped owre Scotland's faes' 

There ceas'd his brag of war ; 
Sair sham'd to mind aught but his dame, 

And maiden Fairly fair. 
Black fear he felt, — but what to fear 

He wistna : — yit wi' dread 
Sair shook his body, sair his limbs, 

And a' the warriour fled ! 



KEMPION. 



Our ideas of Dragons are probably derived from the Scandina- 
vians. The legends of Regnar Lodbrog, and of the huge snake in 
the Edda by whose folds the earth is encircled, are well known. 
Griffins and dragons are fabled by the Danes as watching over and 
defending hoards of gold. From these authorities, and that of 
Herodotus, our Milton derives his simile : — 

" As when a gryphon, through the wilderness, 
With winged course o'er hill and mossy dale, 
Pursues the Arimaspian, who, by stealth, 
Had, from his wakeful custody, purloined 
The guarded gold." 

In Boiardo's Orlando Inamorato, c. xxv. xxvi. is a story 
somewhat similar to the present. The renowned Sir John Mande- 
ville recounts another, which, he says, occurred in one of the 
Grecian Islands. And a third, of more modern date, is tradition- 
ally current at Basil in Switzerland. 

The manor of Sockburn, in the county of Durham, is held of the 
Bishop, as palatine, by presenting to him on his first arrival, at a 
certain spot in his diocese, an ancient sword, with which one Pollard 
is said to have killed, in times of yore, a dragon, or " fiery flying 
serpent," and the Bishop has to hear the legend formally recounted, 
with as much gravity as he may. — [From the Introduction]. 



Come here, come here, ye freely feed, 
And lay your head low on my knee ; 

The heaviest weird I will you read, 
That ever was read to gay lady. 



O, mickle dolour shall ye dree,* 

And aye the salt seas o'er ye'se swim, 

And far more dolour shall ye dree 

On Estmere f Crags, when ye them climb. 

I weird ye to a fiery beast, 

And relieved shall ye never be, 
Till Kempion, the King Iris son, 

Come to the crag, and thrice kiss thee. 

O, mickle dolour did she dree, 

And aye the salt seas o'er she swam, 
And far more dolour did she dree 

On Estmere Crags, ere she them clamb. 

And aye she cried for Kempion, 

Gin he would but come to her hand. — 

Now word has gone to Kempion, 
That such a beast was in his land. 

Now by my sooth, said Kempion, 

This fiery beast I'll gang and see. — 
And, by my sooth, said Segramour, 

My only brother, I'll gang with thee. 

Then builded have they a bonny boat, 

And they have set her to the sea ; 
But a mile before they reached the shore, 

Around them she gar'd J the red fire flee. 

O Segramour, keep the boat afloat 

And let her not the land o'er near ; 
For this wicked beast will sure go mad, 

And set fire to a' the land and mair. 

Soon has he bent an arblast bow, 
And aimed an arrow at her head, 

* Suffer. 

t Estmere crags are probably intended to represent the cliff? of Northum- 
berland, in opposition to Westmoreland. — W. S. 
; Caused. 



180 KEMPION. 

And swore, if she did not quit the land, 
With that same shaft to shoot her dead. 

O out of my stythe I winna rise, 

(And it is not for the a' of thee), 
Till Kempion, the King his son, 

Come to the crag, and thrice kiss me. 

He has louted him o'er the dizzy crag, 

And given the monster kisses ane ; 
Awa she gaed, and again she came, 

The fieryest beast that ever was seen ! 

O out of my stythe I winna rise, 

(And not for a' thy bow nor thee), 
Till Kempion, the King his son, 

Come to the crag, and thrice kiss me. 

He 's louted him o'er the Estmere crags, 

And he has given her kisses twa : 
Awa she gaed, and again she came, 

The fieryest beast that ever you saw !* 

O out of my den I winna rise, 

Nor flee it for the fear of thee, 
Till Kempion, that courteous knight, 

Come to the crag, and thrice kiss me. 

He 's louted him o'er the lofty crag, 
And he has given her kisses three ; 

* Sir Walter Scott has taken a hint from this, in one of the episodes in 
the Lady of the Lake : — 

" She Crossed him once, she Crossed him twice, 

That lady was so brave ; 
The fouler grew his goblin hue, 
The darker grew the cave. 

" She Crossed him thrice,— that lady bold,— 

He rose beneath her hand ; 
The fairest knight on Scottish mould, 

Her brother, Ethert Brand." 



181 



Away she gaed, and again she came, 
The loveliest lady e'er could be ! 

And by ray sooth, says Kempion, 

My own true love (for this is she), 
They surely had a heart of stone 

Could put thee to such misery. 

O was it warwolf in the wood, 

Or was it mermaid on the sea ; 
Or was it man, or vile woman, 

My ain true love, that misshaped thee ? 

It was no warwolf in the wood, 

Nor was it mermaid in the sea ; 
But it was my wicked step-mother, 

And wae and weary may she be. 

O ! a heavier weird shall light her on 

Than ever fell on vile woman ; 
Her hair shall grow rough, and her teeth grow lang, 

And on her four feet shall she gang. 

None shall take pity her upon : 

In Wormeswood she aye shall wan, 
And relieved shall she never be, 

Till Saint Mungo come over the sea : — 
And, sighing, said that weary wight, 

" I doubt that day I'll never see." 

Scott's Border Minstrelsy. 



WILLIE OF KINMONT. 



This, which Sir Walter Scott characterises as one of the last and 
most gallant achievements performed upon the Border, took place 
in the year 1596. 



O have ye na heard of the false Sakelde ? — 
O have ye na heard of the keen Lord Scroop ?- 

How they have taken bold Kinmont Willie, 
On Hairibee * to hang him up ? 

Had Willie had but twenty men ; 

But twenty men as stout as he, 
False Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, 

With eightscore in his company. 

They bound his legs beneath the steed, — 
They tied his hands behind his back, — 

They guarded him flvesome on each side, 
And they brought him over the Liddel-rack. 

They led him through the Liddel-rack, 
And also through the Carlisle sands, — 

They brought him to Carlisle castle, 
To be at my Lord Scroop's commands. 

The place of execution for the English Marches, at Carlisle. 



WILLIE OF KINMONT. 

My hands are tied, but my tongue is free ; 

And who will dare this deed avow, 
Or answer by the Border law, 

Or answer to the bold Buccleugh ? 

Now hold thy tongue, thou rank rover, 
There's never a Scott shall set ye free ; 

Before ye cross my castle-gate, 

I trow ye shall take farewell of me. 

Fear na ye that, my Lord, quoth Willie ; 

By the faith of my body, Lord Scroop, he said, 
I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, * 

But I paid my lawing f before I gaed. 

Now word is gane to the bold Keeper, 
In Branksome Ha', where that he lay, 

That Lord Scroop has taken the Kinmont Willie, 
Between the hours of night and day. 

He has taken the table with his hand, 
He gar'd the red wine spring on hie : 

Now Christ's curse on my head, he said, 
But avenged of Lord Scroop I'll be ! 

O is my basnet + a widow's curch, § 

Or my lance a wand of the willow tree — 

Or my arm a lady's lily hand, 

That an English lord should lightly || me? 

And have they ta'en him — Kinmont Willie, 

Against the truce of Border tide, 
And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch 

Is keeper here on the Scottish side ? 

And have they e'en ta'en him — Kinmont Willie, 
Withouten either dread or fear, 

* Inn. t Reckoning. J Helmet. 

§ Coif. !! Set light by. 



183 



184 



WILLIE OF KINMONT. 

And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch 
Can back a steed, or shake a spear ? 

were there war between the lands, 
As well I wot that there is none, 

1 would slight Carlisle castle high, 
Though it were builded of marble stone. 

I would set that castle in a low, * 
And sloken it with English blood : 

There 's never a man in Cumberland 
Should ken where Carlisle castle stood. 

But since no war 's between the lands, 
And there is peace, and peace should be, 

I'll neither harm English lad or lass, 
And yet the Kinmont freed shall be. 

He has called him forty marchmen bauld ; 

I trow they were of his ain name, 
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, called 

The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same. 

He has called him forty marchmen bauld, 
Were kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch ; 

With spur on heel, and splent on spauld, f 
And glaives of green, and feathers blue. 

There were five and five before them a', 
With hunting horns and bugles bright ; 

And five and five came with Buccleuch, 
Like warder's men arrayed for fight. 

And five and five, like a mason gang, 
That carried the ladders long and high ; 

And five and five, like broken men, — 
And so they reached the Woodhouselee. 

* Flame. t Armour on shoulder. 



WILLIE OF KINMONT. 

And as we crossed the Bateable Land, 
When to the English side we held, 

The first of men that we met wi' } 
Who should it be but false Sakelde! 

Where be ye going, ye hunters keen, 
Quo' false Sakelde, come tell to me ? 

We go to hunt an English stag 

Has trespassed on the Scots' countrie. 

Where be ye going, ye marshalmen, 
Quo' false Sakelde, come tell me true? 

We go to catch a rank rover, 

Has broken faith with the bold Buccleuch. 

Where are ye going, ye mason lads, 
With all your ladders, long and hie ? 

We gang to herry a corbie's nest, 

That wons not far from Woodhouselee. 

Where be ye going, ye broken men, 
Quo' false Sakelde, come tell to me ? 

Now Dickie of Deghope led that band, 
And the never a word of lear * had he. 

Why trespass ye on the English side ? 

Raw-footed outlaws, stand ! quo' he. 
The never a word had Dickie to say, — 

So he thrust the lance through his false bodie. 

Then on we held for Carlisle town, 

And at Staneshaw bank the Eden we crossed: 
The water was great and mickle of space, 

But the never a horse nor man we lost. 

And when we reached the Staneshaw bank, 
The wind was rising loud and high, 

* Learning; ability to speak. 



185 



186 



WILLIE OF KINMONT. 

And there the Laird gar'd leave our steeds, 
For fear that they should stamp and neigh. 

And when we left the Staneshaw bank, 
The wind began full loud to blaw ; 

But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, 
When we came beneath the castle wa\ 

We crept on knees, and held our breath, 
Till we placed the ladders against the wa' ; 

And so ready was Buccleuch himsell, 
To mount the first before us a'. 

He has taken the watchman by the throat, 
He flung him down upon the lead ; — 

Had there not been peace between our land, 
Upon the other side thou hadst gaed. 

Now sound our trumpet, quo' Buccleuch, 
Let 's waken Lord Scroop right merrily : 

Then loud the warder's trumpet blew, 
" O wha dare meddle wi' me ? " 

Then speedily to work we gaed, 
And raised the slogan ane and a', 

And cut a hole through a sheet of lead ; 
And so we won to the castle ha'. 

They thought King James and all his men, 
Had won the house with bow and spear : 

It was but twenty Scots and ten 
That put a thousand in such a stear !* 

With coulters and with fore-hammers 
We gar'd the bars bang merrily, 

Until we came to the inner prison, 
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. 

* Stir. 



WILLIE OF KINMONT. 

And when we came to the lower prison, 
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie, — 

O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, 
Upon the morn that thou'st to die ? 

O I sleep saft, and I wake aft, 

It's lang since sleeping was fleyed * from me ; 
Give my sendee back to my wife and bairns, 

And a' good fellows that spier f for me. 

Then Red Rowan has hente him up, 
The starkest man in Teviotdale — 

Abide ! abide ! now Red Rowan, 

Till of my Lord Scroop I take farewell. 

Farewell ! farewell ! my gude Lord Scroop — 
My gude Lord Scroop, farewell ! he cried, 

I'll pay you for my lodging maill, J 

When first we meet on the Border side. 

Then shoulder high, with shout and ciy, 
We bore him down the ladder lang ; 

At every stride Red Rowan made, 
I wot the Kinmont's irons played clang. 

O mony a time, quoth Kinmont Willie, 
I have ridden horse, baith wild and wood ; 

But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, 
I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. 

And mony a time, quoth Kinmont Willie, 
I've pricked a horse out o'er the fins; § 

But since the day I backed a steed, 
I never wore sic cumbrous spurs. 

We scarce had won the Staneshaw bank, 
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, 

* Driven. t Ask. ; Rent. i farrows. 



187 



188 



WILLIE OF KINMONT. 



And a thousand men, in horse and foot, 
Came wi' the keen Lord Scroop along. 

Buccleuch has turned to Eden water, 
Even where it flowed frae bank to brim, 

And he has plunged in with a' his band, 
And safely swam them through the stream. 

He turned him on the other side, 

And at Lord Scroop his glaive flung he : 

"If ye like na my visit in merry England, 
In fair Scotland come visit me." 

All sore astonished stood Lord Scroop, 
He stood as still as rock of stone ; 

He scarcely dared to turn his eyes, 

When through the water they had gone. 

" He is either himself a devil frae hell, 
Or else his mother a witch maun be, — 

I wad na have ridden that wan * water 
For all the gold in Christentie !" 

Scott's Border Minstrelsy. 



* White. 



THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 



Rise up, rise up now, Lord Douglas, she says, 
And put on your armour so bright ; 

Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine 
Was married to a Lord under night. 

Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, 
And put on your armour so bright ; 

And take better care of your youngest sister, 
For your eldest's awa the last night. 

He 's mounted her on a milk-white steed, 

And himself on a dapple gray, 
With a buglet horn hung down by his side, 

And lightly he rode away. 

Lord William looked over his left shoulder, 

To see what he could see, 
And there he 'spied her seven brethren bold, 

Come riding over the lee. 

Light down, light down, Lady Margaret, he said, 

And hold my steed in your hand, 
Until that against your seven brethren bold, 

And your father, I make a stand. 



190 



THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 

She held his steed in her milk-white hand, 

And never shed one tear, 
Until that she saw her seven brethren fall, 

And her father hard fighting, that she loved so dear. 

O hold your hand, Lord William, she said, 
For your strokes they are wondrous sore ; 

True lovers I can get many a one, 
But a Father I can never get more. 

O she 's taken out her handkerchief, 

It was of the Holland so fine, 
And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, 

That were redder than the wine. 

O choose, O choose, Lady Margaret, he said, 

O whether will ye gang or bide ? 
I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William, she said, 

For ye have left me no other guide. 

He has lifted her on a milk-white steed, 

Himself on a dapple gray, 
With a buglet horn hung down by his side, 

And slowly they both rode away. 

O they rode on, and on they rode, 

And all by the light of the moon, 
Until that they came to yon wan water, 

And there they lighted down. 

They lighted down to take a drink 

Of the spring that ran so clear, 
And down the stream ran his good heart's blood, 

And sore she began to fear. 

Hold up, hold up, Lord William, she says, 

For I fear that you are slain ! 
'T is nothing but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, 

That shines in the water so plain. 



THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 

O they rode on, and on they rode, 
And all by the light of the moon, 

Until they came to his mother's ha' door, 
And there they lighted down. 

Get up, get up, lady mother, he says, 

Get up, and let me in — 
Get up, get up, lady mother, he says, 

For this night my fair Lady I have won. 

O make my bed, lady mother, he says, 

O make it broad and deep ! 
And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, 

And the sounder I will sleep. 

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight — 

Lady Margaret, long ere day : 
And all true lovers that go together, 

May they have more luck than they ! 

Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, 
Lady Margaret in Marie's quire ; 

Out of the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, 
And out of the knight's, a brier. 

And they two met, and they two plait, 

And fain they would be near ; 
And all the world might ken right well, 

They were two lovers dear. 

But bye and rade the black Douglas, 

And wow, but he was rough ! 
For he pull'd up the bonny brier, 

And flang 't in St. Marie's loch. 

Jamieson. 



191 



THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. 



O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk, 
Gin * your feathering be sheen ! 

And waly, waly, my master dear, 
Gin ye look pale and lean ! 

have ye tint at tournament 
Your sword, or yet your spear ; 

Or mourn ye for the southern lass, 
Whom ye may not win near ? 

1 have not tint at tournament 
My sword, nor yet my spear ; 

But sore I mourn for my true love, 
With many a hitter tear. 

But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, 
You can both speak and flee ; 

Ye shall carry a letter to my true love, 
Bring an answer back to me. 

But how shall I your true love find, 

Or how should I her know ; 
I bear a tongue ne'er with her spake, 

An eye that ne'er her saw? 
* But. 



THE GAY G0SS-HA.WK. 

weel shall ye my true love ken, 

So soon as ye her see ; 
For, of all the flowers of fair England, 

The fairest flower is she. 

The red that 's on my true love's cheek 
Is like blood drops on the snaw ; 

The white that is on her breast so fair, 
Like the down of the white sea-maw. 

And even at my love's bower door 

There grows a flowering birk ; 
And ye may sit and sing thereon, 

As she gangs to the Kirk. 

And four-and-twenty fair ladies 

Will to the Mass repair ; 
But well may ye my true love ken, 

The fairest lady there. 

Lord William has written a love letter, 

Put it under his pinion gray; 
And he 's away to Southern land 

As fast as wings can gae. 

And even at that lady's bower 

There grew a flowering birk ; 
And he sat down and sang thereon, 

As she gaed to the kirk. 

And when he kent that lady fair 

Among her maidens free ; — 
For the flower that springs in May morning 

Was never so fair as she ; — 

He lighted at that lady's gate, 

And sat him on a pin ; 
And sang full sweet the notes of love, 

Till all was still within. 

K 



193 



194 



THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. 

And first he sung a low, low note, 

And syne he sang a clear ; 
And aye the o'erword of the sang 

Was — "Your love canna win here." 

Feast on, feast on, my maidens all, 
The wine flows you among ; 

While I gan to my shot window, 
And hear yon bonny bird's song. 

Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, 
The song ye sung yest'reen ; 

For well I ken, by your sweet singing, 
Ye've with my true love been. 

O, first he sang a merry song, 
And syne he sang a grave ; 

And syne he picked his feathers gray, 
To her the letter gave. 

Hae there a letter from Lord William 
He says he 's sent you three : 

He cannot wait your love longer, 
And for your sake he'll die. 

Go bid him bake his bridal bread, 

And brew his bridal ale ; 
And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk, 

Long, long ere it be stale. 

The lady is gone to her chamber, 
And a mournful woman was she ; 

As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash, 
And were about to die. 

A boon ! a boon ! my father dear, 

A boon I beg of thee ! — 
— Ask not that paughty Scottish lord, 

For him you ne'er shall see : 



THE GA* GOSS-HAWK. 195 



But for your honest asking else, 
Well granted it shall be. — 

Then gin I die in Southern land, 
In Scotland bury me. 

And the first Kirk that ye come to, 
Ye 's gar the Mass be sung ; 

And the next kirk that ye come to, 
Ye 's gar the bells be rung ; 

And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk, 
Ye 's tarry there till night. — 

And so her father pledged his word, 
And so Ins promise plight. 

She 's ta'en her to her bigly bower, 

As fast as she could fare ; 
And she has drank a sleepy draught, 

That she had mixed with care. — 

And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek, 
That was so bright of blee ; 

And she seemed to be as surely dead 
As any one could be. 

Then spake her cruel step-mother, 

Take ye the burning lead, 
And drop a drop on her bosom, 

To try if she be dead. 

They took a drop of boiling lead, 
They dropped it on her breast : 

Alas ! alas ! her father cried, 
She 's dead without the Priest. 

She neither chattered with her teeth, 
Nor shivered with her chin : 

Alas ! alas ! her father cried, 
There is no breath within. 



]96 THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. 

Then up arose her seven brethren, 

And hewed to her a bier ; 
They hewed it from the solid oak, 

Laid it o'er with silver clear. 

Then up and got her seven sisters, 

And sewed to her a kell ; 
And every steek that they put in 

Sewed to a silver bell. 

The first Scotch Kirk that they came to, 

They gar'd the Bells be rung ; 
The next Scotch Kirk that they came to, 

They gar'd the Mass be sung. 

But when they came to St. Mary's kirk, 
There stood spearman all in a row ; 

And up and started Lord William, 
The chieftain among them a'. 

Set down, set down the bier, he said, 

Let me look her upon : 
But as soon as Lord William touched her hand 

Her colour began to come. 

She brightened like the lily, 

Till her pale colour was gone : 
With rosy cheek, and ruby lip, 

She smiled her love upon. 

A morsel of your bread, my Lord, 

And one glass of your wine ; 
For I have fasted three long days, 

All for your sake and mine. 

Go home, go home, my seven bold brothers, 
Go home, and blow your horn ! 

I trow ye would have given me the skaith, 
But I've given you the scorn. 



THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. 197 



Commend me to my gray Father, 
That wished my soul good rest ; 

But woe be to my cruel step-dame, 
Gar'd burn me on my breast. — 

Ah ! woe to you, you light woman ! 

An ill death may you die ! 
For we left father and sisters at home, 

Breaking their hearts for thee. 

Scott's Border Minstrelsy. 



LADY ELSPAT. 



How brent's your brow, my Lady Elspat ! 

How golden yellow is your hair ! 
O' a' the maids o' fair Scotland, 

There's nane like Lady Elspat fair. 

Perform your vows, sweet William, she says, 
The vows which ye have made to me ; 

And at the back o' my mither's castle, 
This night I'll surely meet with thee, 

But wae be to her brother's page, 

That heard the words thir twa did say ; 

He 's told them to her lady mother, 

Who wrought sweet William mickle wae. 

For she has taken him, sweet William, 

And she 's gar'd bind him with his bow-string, 

Till the red blood of his fair body 
From ilka nail of his hand did spring 

O, it fell once upon a time, 

That the Lord-Justice came to town ; 
Out has she taken him, sweet William, 

Brought him before the Lord-Justice boun\ 

And what is the crime now, lady, he says, 
That has by this young man been done ? 

0, he has broken my bonny castle, 
That was weel built wi' lime and stane ; 



LADY ELSPAT. 

And he has broken my bonny coffers, 
That was weel banded wi' oaken ban' ; 

And he has stolen my rich jewels ; 
I wot he has stolen them every ane. 

Then out it spake her Lady Elspat, 
As she sat by Lord- Justice' knee : 

Now ye have told your tale, mother, 
I pray, Lord- Justice, ye '11 now hear me. 

He hasna broken her bonny castle, 

That was weel built wi' lime and stane ; 

Nor has he stolen her rich jewels, 
For I wot she has them every one. 

But though he was my first true love, 
And though I had sworn to be his bride, 

'Cause he had na a great estate, 

She would this way our loves divide. 

Syne out and spake the Lord-Justice, 
I wot the tear was in his ee : 

I see no fault in this young man ; 
So loose his bands, and set him free : 

And take your love, now, Lady Elspat ; 

And my best blessing you both upon ; 
For if he be your first true love, 

He is my eldest sister's son. 

There stands a steed in my stable, 
Cost me both gold and white money ; 

Ye 's get as mickle of my free land 
As he'll ride about in a summer's day- 

Jamieson. 



199 



SWEET WILLIE OF LIDDESDALE 



Sweet Willie, the flower of Liddesdale, 
Has taken him o'er the salt-sea faem, 

And he 's doen him to foreign lands, 

And he 's wooed a wife and Drought her hame. 

And many a may in Liddesdale 

Did sadly sigh to see that tide ; 
But never a may in Liddesdale 

Was half so comely as his bride. 

For lovely-sweet fair Alice was, 

And bonnie yellow was her hair ; 
And happy, happy might she been, 

But his mother wrought her mickle care. 

His mother wrought her mickle care, 

And mickle dolour gart her dree ; 
For her young bairnie maun be born, 

And lighter can she never be. 

Sad in her bower fair Alice sits, 

And sore, oh, sore ! sore is her pain ! 

And sore and woeful is his heart, 

While Willie mourns o'er her in vain, 



SWEET WILLIE OF LIDDESDALE. 

And he has hied him to his mother, 
That vilest Witch of vilest kin ; 

He says, My lady has a girdle, 
All diamonds out, and gold within ; 

And ay at every silver hem 

Hangs fifty silver bells and ten : 

Oh, let her be lighter of her young bairn, 
And that goodly gift shall be your ain ! 

Of her young bairn she 's ne'er be lighter, 

Nor ever see an end of wae ; 
But she shall die and turn to clay, 

And ye shall wed another may. 

Another may I'll never wed ! 

Another love I'll never ken ! 
But sadly sighed that weary wight, 

I wish my days were at an en' ! 

He did him tell his mother again, 
And said, — My lady has a steed, 

White as the drift, as roebuck swift, 
His like is not in the lands of Leed ; 

For he is silver-shod before, 
And he is golden-shod behin' ; 

And at ilka tate of that horse's mane 
Is a golden chess and bell ringin' ; 

And mickle did ye praise his speed, 
When at the ring he ran so swift : 

Oh, let her be lighter of her young bairn, 
And yours shall be that goodly gift. 

Of her young bairn she 's never be lighter, 

Nor ever see an end of wae ; 
But she shall die, and go to clay, 

And ye shall wed anither may. 
k 2 



20 



202 SWEET WILLIE OF LIDDESDALE. 

Oh, mother ! a woman's heart ye bear, 

Take ruth upon a mother's pine ; 
Take ruth on your own flesh and blood, 

Nor let her sakeless bairnie tine : 

And it shall live your oye to be ; 

To cheer your eild in many a stead ; 
And sain with benisons your truff, 

When in the mould your bones are laid, 

Away! away! for never she 

Or imp or oye to me shall be ; 
But she shall die and turn to clay, 

And ye shall wed anither may. 

Oh! mother pree'd ye e'er of love, 

And can ye bid me love again ? 
And can she break her Willie's heart, 

For him who dree'd a mother's pain ? 

And can ye thole to kill your son, 
Your only hope ! with ruthless rage ; 

Syne fa' yourself, like blasted tree, 
Withered with curses, in your age ? 

Away ! away ! what blacker curse 

Nor uncomplying bairn can be ! 
O' her young bairn she 's never be lighter, 

Nor ever an end of dolour see ! 

Then out it speak the Billy Blin,* 

Of Liddes' lord that aye took care : 
Then ye do buy a leaf of wax, 

And kiauve it weel, and mould it fair ; 

And shape it bairn and bairnlie-like, 
And in twa glazen een ye pit ; 

* A kind of domestic fairy or sprite, supposed to interest itself in the 
welfare of the family. 



SWEET WILLIE OF LIDDESDALE. 20t3 

With holy water synd * it o'er, 
And by the holy Rood sain it ; 

And carry it to fair Alice's bower, 

And " Ave Mary /" nine times say; 
Syne in the Lady Mother's name, 

In Alice' arms the image lay ; 

And ilka knot and bolt undo, 

Fair Alice's bower that is within ; 
And do you to your mother then, 

And bid her to your boy's christ'ning ; 

For dear 's the boy to you he 's been ! 

Then notice weel what she will dae ; 
And do you stand a little for-by, 

And listen weel what she will say. 

Now Willie has all his bidden done ; 

In good time aye he gae warning; 
And he''s doen him to his mother then, 

And bidden her to his boy's christ'ning. 

" O who has loosed the nine witch-knots 

Among that lady's locks so fair ? 
And who the kembs of care ta'en out, 

That was among that lady's hair ? 

And who has killed the master kid, 

That ran aneath the lady's bed? 
And who has loosed her left-foot shoe, 

And that young lady lighter made ? " f 

Then out it spake the Billy Blin, 

As, aye at hand, he harkit near ; 
(And the witch did quake in lith and limb, 

The weird of Billy Blin to hear) : 

* Sprinkle. 

t Deceived by the false intelligence, the witch lays open her machina- 
tions, which the sprite on the instant counteracts. 



204 SWEET WILLIE OF LIDDESDALE, 

3 Willie has loosed the nine witch-knots, 
Among that lady's locks so fair ; 

And the kembs of care he has taken out, 
That was among that lady's hair ; 

And he has killed the master kid, 
That ran aneath that lady's bed ; 

And he has loosed her left-foot shoe, 
And his dear lady lighter made : 

And thou, the fellest Hag on mold, 
A mother's name that ever bure ! 

Time never shall slock the fiery pangs 
III gar thy burning heart endure. 

Jamieson. 



THE DOWIE* DENS OF YARROW 



Late at even, drinking the wine, 

And ere they paid the lawing, 
They set a combat them between, 

To fight it in the dawning. 

O stay at name, my noble lord ! 

O stay at hame, my marrow ! 
My cruel brother will you betray, 

On the dowie howms of Yarrow. 

O fare ye weel, my lady gay ! 

fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 

For I maun gae, though I ne'er return 
Frae the dowie howms of Yarrow. 

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, 

As oft she had done before, O ! 
She belted him with his noble brand, 

And he 's awa to Yarrow. 

As he gaed up the Tinnes' bank, 

1 wat he gaed with sorrow, 

Till down in a den he 'spied nine armed men, 
On the dowie howms of Yarrow. 

* Dreary. 



206 



THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. 

come ye here to part your land, 
The bonnie Forest thorough? 

Or come ye here to wield your brand 
On the dowie howms of Yarrow ? 

1 come not here to part my land, 
And neither to beg nor borrow ; 

I come to wield my noble brand 
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. 

If I see all, ye 're nine to ane, 

And that 's an unequal marrow ; 
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. 

Four has he hurt, and five has slain, 

On the bloody braes of Yarrow, 
Till that stubborn knight came him behind, 

And ran his body thorough. 

Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 

And tell your sister Sarah 
To come and lift her leafu' lord; 

He 's sleeping sound on Yarrow. — 

Yest'reen I dreamed a doleful dream ; 

I fear there will be sorrow ! 
I dreamed I pu'd the heather green, 

With my true love, on Yarrow. 

O gentle wind ! that bloweth south, 

From where my love repaireth, 
Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth, 

And tell me how he fareth ! 

But in the glen strive armed men, 

They 've wrought me dool and sorrow ; 

They 've slain — the comeliest knight they 've slain- 
He bleeding lies on Yarrow ! 



THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW, 

As she gaed down yon high, high hill, 
She gaed wi' dool and sorrow, 

And in the den 'spied ten slain men, 
On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, 
She searched his wounds all thorough ; 

She kissed them till her lips grew red, 
On the dowie howms of Yarrow. 

Now hold your tongue, my daughter dear ! 

For a' this breeds but sorrow ! 
I'll wed ye to a better lord 

Than him ye lost on Yarrow. 

O hold your tongue, my father dear ! 

Ye mind me but of sorrow ; 
A fairer rose did never bloom 

Than now lies cropped on Yarrow ! 



207 



Jamieson. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 



George Lillo, a jeweller of London, who died in 1739, 2£t. 47, 
a moral and affecting writer, the author of "The Fatal Curiosity," 
and " Arden of Feversham," wrote a tragedy on this subject, which 
is sufficiently known. It appeared in 1730 : but the following 
ballad is supposed to be about a hundred years older, and therefore 
has some claim on the score of antiquity. The events mentioned in 
both are believed to have actually occurred. 



All youth of fair England, 

That dwell both far and near, 
Regard my story that I tell, 

And to my song give ear. 

A London lad I was — 

A merchant's 'prentice bound, 
My name George Barnwell ; that did spend 

My master many a pound. 

Take heed of harlots then, 

And their enticing trains ; 
For by that means I have been brought 

To hang alive in chains. 

As I upon a day 

Was walking through the street, 
About my master's business, 

A wanton I did meet. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

A gallant, dainty dame. 
And sumptuous in attire ; 

With smiling look she greeted me, 
And did my name require. 

Which when I had declared, 
She gave me then a kiss, 

And said, if I would come to her, 
I should have more than this. 

Fair mistress, then quoth I, 

If I a place may know, 
This evening I will be w r ith you, 

For I abroad must go, 

To gather monies in, 

That are my master's due, 

And ere that home I do return, 
I'll come and visit you, 

George Barnwell, then, quoth she, 
Do then to Shoreditch come, 

And ask for Mrs. Millwood's house, 
Next door unto the Gun. 

And trust me on my truth, 
If thou keep touch with me, 

My dearest friend, as my own heart 
Thou shalt right welcome be. 

Thus parted we in peace, 

At home I passed right, 
Then went abroad, and gathered in 

By six o'clock at night, 

An^hundred pound and one : 
With bag under my arm, 

I went to Mrs. Millwood's house, 
And thought on little harm ; 



209 



210 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

And knocking at the door, 

Straightway herself came down, 

Rustling in most brave attire, 
With hood and silken gown. 

Who through her beauty bright 

So gloriously did shine, 
That she amazed my dazzling eyes, 

She seemed so divine. 

She took me by the hand, 

And with a modest grace — 
Welcome, sweet Barnwell! then quoth she, 

Unto this homely place. 

And since I have thee found 

As good as thy word to be, 
A homely supper, ere we part, 

Thou shalt take here with me. 

pardon me, quoth I, 
Fair mistress, I you pray, 

For why, out of my master's house 
So long I dare not stay. 

Alas ! good sir, she said, 

Are you so strictly tied, 
You may not with your dearest friend 

One hour or two abide ? 

Faith ! then the case is hard, 
If it be so, quoth she, 

1 would I were a 'prentice bound, 
To live along with thee. 

Therefore, my dearest George ! 

List well what I shall say, 
And do not blame a woman much, 

Her fancy to bewray. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

Let not affection's force 

Be counted lewd desire, 
Nor think it not immodesty 

I should thy love require. 

With that she turned aside, 

And with a blushing red, 
A mournful motion she bewrayed, 

By hanging down her head. 

A handkerchief she had, 

All wrought with silk and gold, 

Which she, to stay her trickling tears, 
Before her eyes did hold. 

This thing unto my sight 

Was wond'rous rare and strange, 
And in my soul and inward thought 

It wrought a sudden change : 

That I so hardy grew, 

To take her by the hand, 
Saying, Sweet mistress, why do you 

So dull and pensive stand ? 

Call me no mistress now, 

But Sarah thy true friend, 
Thy servant Millwood, honouring thee, 

Until her life hath end. 

If thou wouldst here allege, 

Thou art in years a boy — 
So was Adonis, — yet was he 

Fair Venus' only joy. 

Thus I, who ne'er before 
Of woman found such grace, 

But seeing now so fair a dame 
Give me a kind embrace, 



211 



212 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

I supped with her that night, 

With joys that did abound, 
And for the same paid presently, 

In money twice three pound. 

A hundred kisses then, 

For my farewell, she gave ; 
Crying, sweet Barnwell, when shall I 

Again thy company have ? 

O ! stay not hence too long, 

Sweet George, have me in mind. 

Her words bewitched my childishness, 
She uttered them so kind. 

So that I made a vow, 

Next Sunday, without fail, 
With my sweet Sarah once again 

To tell some pleasant tale. 

When she heard me say so, 
The tears fell from her eye : 

O, George ! quoth she, if thou dost fail, 
Thy Sarah sure will die. 

Though long, yet lo ! at last 
The appointed day was come, 

That I must with my Sarah meet, — 
Having a mighty sum 

Of money in my hand, 

Unto her house went I ; 
Where my love upon her bed, 

In saddest sort did lie. 

What ails my heart's delight, 

My Sarah dear ? quoth I ; 
Let not my love lament and grieve, 

Nor sighing, pine and die. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

But tell me, dearest friend, 
What may thy woes amend, 

And thou shalt lack no means of help, 
Though forty pound I spend ? 

With that she turned her head, 
And sickly thus did say; 

my sweet George ! my grief is great, 
Ten pound I have to pay 

Unto a cruel wretch; 

And God he knows, quoth she, 

1 have it not. — Tush ! rise, I said, 

And take it here of me. 

Ten pounds, nor ten times ten, 
Shall make my love decay : 

Then from my bag into her lap, 
I cast ten pounds straightway. 

All blithe and pleasant then, 

To banqueting we go ; 
She proffered me to lie with her, 

And said it should be so. 

And after that same time, 

I gave her store of coin ; 
Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once ; 

All which I did purloin. 

And thus I did pass on ; 

Until my master then, 
Did call to have his reckoning in, 

Cast up among his men. 

The which when as I heard, 

I knew not what to say, 
For well I knew that I was out, 

Two hundred pound that day. 



213 



214 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

Then from my master straight 

I ran in secret sort ; 
And unto Sarah Millwood there, 

My case I did report. — 

But how she used this youth, 
In this his care and woe ; 

And all a strumpet's wily ways, 
The second part will shew. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 



PART II. 



Young Barnwell comes to thee, 

Sweet Sarah, my delight ! 
I am undone, unless thou stand 

My faithful friend this night. 

Our Master to account 

Hath just occasion found, 
And I am caught behind the hand 

Above two hundred pound. 

And now his wrath to 'scape, 

My love ! I fly to thee, 
Hoping some time I may remain 

In safety here with thee. 

With that she knit her brows ; 

And looking all aquoy, 
Quoth she, What should I have to do, 

With any 'prentice boy ? 

And seeing you have purloined 
Your master's goods away, 

The case is bad, and therefore here 
You shall no longer stay. 



216 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

Why, dear ! thou knowest, I said, 

How all which I could get, 
I gave it and did spend it all 

Upon thee, every wit. 

Quoth she, Thou art a knave, 

To charge me in this sort ; 
Being a woman of credit fair, 

And known of good report. 

Therefore, I tell thee flat, 

Be packing with good speed ; 
I do defy thee from my heart, 

And scorn thy filthy deed. 

Is this the friendship, that 

You did to me protest? 
Is this the great affection which 

You so to me exprest? 

Now, fie on subtle shrews! 

The best is, I may speed 
To get a lodging any where 

For money in my need. 

False woman! now farewell, 
Whilst twenty pound doth last. 

My anchor in some other haven, 
With freedom I will cast. 

When she perceived by this, 

I had store of money there ; 
Stay, George, quoth she, thou art too quick : 

Why, man ! I did but jeer. 

Dost think, for all my speech, 

That I would let thee go? 
Faith, no ! said she, my love to thee, 

I wis is more than so. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

You scorn a 'prentice boy, 
I heard you just now swear ; 

Wherefore I will not trouble you. — 
Nay, George ! hark in thine ear : 

Thou shalt not go to night, 
What chance soe'er befall ; 

But, man ! we '11 have a bed for thee, 
Or else the devil take all. 

So I, by wiles bewitched, 
And snared with fancy still, 

Had then no power to get away, 
Or to withstand her will. 

For wine on wine I called, 
And cheer upon good cheer ; 

And nothing in the world I thought, 
For Sarah's love too dear. 

Whilst in her company 

I had such merriment, 
All, all too little I did think, 

That I upon her spent. 

A fig for care and thought ! 

When all my gold is gone, 
In faith, my girl ! we will have more, 

Whoe'er I light upon. 

My father's rich — why then 
Should ^ want store of gold ? 

Nay, with a father sure, quoth she, 
A son may sure make bold ! 

I 've a sister richly wed, 

I '11 rob her ere I '11 want : 
Nay then, quoth Sarah, they may well 

Consider of your scant. 

L 



217 



218 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

Nay, I an uncle have, 
At Ludlow he doth dwell; 

He is a grazier, which in wealth 
Doth all the rest excel. 

Ere I will live in lack, 

And have no coin for thee, 

I'll rob his house and murder him ;— 
Why should you not ! quoth she. 

Was I a man, ere I 

Would live in poor estate, 
On father, friends, and all my kin, 

I would my talons grate. 

For without money, George, 

A man is but a beast ; 
But bringing money, thou shalt be 

Always my welcome guest. 

For shouldst thou be pursued 
With twenty hues and cries, 

And with a warrant searched for 
With Argus' hundred eyes ; 

Yet here thou shalt be safe, — 
Such private ways there be, 

That if they sought an hundred years, 
They could not find out thee. 

And so carousing both, 
Their pleasures to content, 

George Barnwell had in little space 
His money wholly spent. 

Which done, to Ludlow straight 

He did provide to go, 
To rob his wealthy uncle there, — 

His minion would have it so. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 



219 



And once he thought to take 

His father by the way ;* 
But that he feared his master had 

Took order for his stay.f 

Unto his uncle then, 

He rode with might and main ; 
Who with a welcome and good cheer, 

Did Barnwell entertain. 

One fortnight's space he stayed, 

Until it chanced so, 
His uncle with his cattle did 

Unto a market go. 

His kinsman rode with him, 

Where he did see right plain, 
Great store of money he had took ; 

When, coming home again, 

Sudden, within a wood, 

He struck his uncle down, 
And beat his brains out of his head, 

So sore he cracked his crown. 

* It is thus not impossible that even parricide, — a crime which, amongst 
the Athenians, was held to be so incredible that no punishment was ap- 
pointed for it, might have crowned the career of this unhappy debauchee. 

" Principiis obsta." — Hor. 

When the genial spirit of filial affection and reverence is extinguished, 
the prospect of all other virtues becomes dreary, and the hope clouded ; and 
if that ennobling influence be not recoveied, no limit can be fixed to the 
hardness and depravity of heart which may ensue. It is like one of the 
main buttresses of an ancient and beautiful edifice, of the first and best 
architecture : when that is struck away, the fall of the whole structure, on 
its reckless disturbers, may be speedy and irretrievable. Or (to pursue a 
similar fancy), it is as one of the piers of a bridge, of more safe and certain 
construction than the Mahometan " Al Sirat," and which will lead to a 
better paradise. — Ed. 

t For apprehending him, if he went to his father's. — Dr. Percy. 



220 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 

Then seizing fourscore pound, 
To London straight he hied, 

And unto Sarah Millwood all 
The cruel fact descried. 

Tush ! 't is no matter, George, 

So we the money have, 
To have good cheer in jolly sort, 

And deck us fine and brave. 

Thus lived in filthy sort, 
Until their store was gone; 

When means to get them any more, 
I wis poor George had none. 

Therefore, in railing sort, 
She thrust him out of door ; 

Which is the just reward of those 
Who paths like these explore. 

O, do me not disgrace ! 

In this my need, quoth he. — 
She called him thief and murderer, 

With all the spite might be. 

To the constable she sent, 
To have him apprehended ; 

And showed how far, in each degree, 
He had the laws offended. 

When Barnwell saw her drift, 
To sea he got straightway ; 

Where fear and sting of conscience, 
Continually on him lay. 

Unto the Lord Mayor then, 

He did a letter write, 
In which his own and Sarah's fault 

He did at large recite. 



GEORGE BARNWELL. 



221 



Whereby she seized was, 

And then to Ludlow sent, 
Where she was judged, condemned, and hanged, 

For murder, incontinent. 

There died this gallant quean, 

Such was her greatest gains : 
For murder, in Polonia,* 

Was Barnwell hung in chains. 

Lo ! here 's the end of youth, 

That after harlots haunt ; 
Who in the spoils of other men, 

About the streets do flaunt. 



Percy. 



• Poland : — The ship was probably bound to Dantzic. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD 
TO HIS LOVE. 



BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOW. 



Come, live with me, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That hill and valley, dale and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield ! 

There will we sit upon the rocks, 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

There will I make thee beds of roses, 
With a thousand fragrant poesies ; 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 

* This song has been sometimes printed as Shakspeare's ; but there is now 
very little doubt that it is rightly attributed to Marlow. It is assigned to him 
by Walton (who lived very near to his time), in his " Complete Angler," 
wherein it is inserted, and described as " old-fashioned poetry, but choicely 
good ;" and also an answer, by Sir Walter Raleigh ; but this last is of inferior 
merit. A pleasing but extravagant poem was written in imitation of Marlow's, 
by Dr. Donne, who died in 1631. Christopher Marlow was a poet of very supe- 
rior talents, but unhappily of unusually evil principles ; and, in consequence, 
of very dissolute habits. This, however, the reader would hardly discover from 
his noble tragedy of " Faustus :" the conclusion of which, in particular, is 
very finely worked up. Marlow died, disgracefully, in 1593. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we '11 pull ; 
Slippers lined choicely for the cold ; 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps, and amber studs : — 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Then live with me, and be my love ! 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning : — 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my love ! 

Percy. 



223 



A CHRISTMAS SONG.* 



BY J. WITHEBS. 



[About 1630.] 



So, now is come our joyfullest feast, 

Let every man be jolly — 
Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, 

And every post with holly. 
Though some churls at our mirth repine, 
Round your foreheads garlands twine — 
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine ! 

And let us all be merry ! 

Now, all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 
And Christmas-blocks are burning — 

Their ovens they with bak'd meats choak, 
And all their spits are turning : 

* This song has been inserted, as containing a curious and faithful descrip- 
tion of the Christmas manners of our ancestors : in some points, doubtless, 
degenerating sadly into evil and intemperance, and therefore open to animad- 
version ; but in others, exhibiting a benevolence and simplicity of character 
which, it is much to be lamented, in our more advanced days is becoming 
obsolete and neglected, and in danger of complete extinction. 



A CHRISTMAS SONG. 

Without the door let sorrow lie ; 
And if for cold it hap to die, 
We '11 bury 't in a Christmas pie, 
And evermore be merry ! 

Now every lad is wond'rous trim, 

And no man minds his labour — 
Our lasses have provided them 

A bagpipe and a tabour ! - 
Young men and maids, and girls and boys, 
Give life to one another's joys, 
And you anon shall by their noise 

Perceive that they are merry. 

Rank misers now do sparing shun, 

Their hall of music soundeth ; 
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run — 

So all things there aboundeth. 
The country folks themselves advance, 
With croudy muttons out of France ; 
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance, 

And all the town be merry ! 

Ned Squash hath fetched his bands from pawn. 

And all his best apparel ; 
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn, 

With droppings of the barrel. 
And those that hardly, all the year, 
Had bread to eat or rags to wear, 
Will have both clothes and dainty fare, 

And all the day be merry ! 

Now poor men to the Justices 

With capons make their errants, 
And if they hap to fail of these, 

They plague them with their warrants ; — 
l2 



225 



226 



A CHRISTMAS SONG. 

But now they feed them with good cheer, 
And what they want they take in beer, — 
For Christmas comes but once a year, 
And then they shall be merry ! 

Good farmers in the country nurse 
The poor, that else was undone ; 
Some landlords spend their money worse, 

On lust and pride in London. 

There the roysters they do play — 

Drab and dice their lands away, 

Which may be our's another day, 

And therefore let 's be merry ! 

The client now his suit forbears — 
The prisoner's heart is eased ; 

The debtor drinks away his cares, 
And for the time is pleased. 

Though others' purses be more fat, 

Why should we pine or grieve at that ? 

Hang sorrow ! care will kill a cat, 
And therefore let 's be merry ! 

Hark ! how the wags abroad do call 

Each other forth to rambling — 
Anon you '11 see them in the hall,] 
For nuts and apples scrambling. 
Hark ! how the roofs with laughter sound, 
Anon they 11 think the house goes round, 
For they the cellar's depth have found, 
And there they will be merry ! 

The wenches with their wassel bowls, 
About the streets are singing — 

The boys are come to catch the owls, 
The wild mare in it bringing. 



A CHRISTMAS SONG. 

Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box ; 
And to the dealing of the Ox, 
Our honest neighbours come by flocks, 
And here they will be merry ! 

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have, 

And mate with every body ; * 
The honest now may play the knave, 

And wise men play the noddy. 
Some youths will now a mumming go — 
Some others play at Rowland-bo, 
And twenty other games boys mo', 

Because they will be merry ! 

Then, wherefore in these merry days, 
Should we, I pray, be duller ? — 

No ! — let us sing some roundelays, 
To make our mirth the fuller. 

And, whilst we thus inspired do sing, 

Let all the streets with echoes ring — 

Woods and hills, and every thing, 
Bear witness we are merry ! 



227 



Jamieson. 



* " This was the festival of Christmas in its original institution. Then were 
the house, the board, the arms, and the heart, open to the stranger, the 
friendless, the fatherless, and the widow ; and the poor tenant was welcomed 
and levelled with his lord. Alas ! these happy times are now vanished : the 
great era of the Christian redemption is now remembered in nothing but the 
name. That spirit of irreligion which is gone out into the world, together 
with its vile and genuine offspring — the sordid, selfish, insatiable spirit of 
avarice and private luxury, — have either devoured or driven away the 
generous and the God-like spirit of public hospitality, attended with inno- 
cent and social mirth. Or, if there be yet any remains of the ancient 
and hospitable festivity, they are, for the most part, such only as are seen 
in revels and riots, bringing reproach and infamy upon this sacred and 
solemn Festival." — From Dr. Delaney's Works. 1754. It is perhaps 
needless to add, that this extract has no connexion with the preceding. 



THE KINGES BALADE. 



A song of the time of Henry VIII. ; said to have been, at some 
period of his reign, a great favourite with that monarch. It has 
even been deemed his own composition ; but this Mr. Evans thinks 
unfounded. 



Pastime, with good company, 
I love ; and shall unto * I die, 
Grudge so f will, but none deny ; 
So God be pleased, so live will I. 

For my pastance J 

Hunt, sing, and dance, 

My heart is set ; 
All godly sport, 
To my comfort, 

Who shall me let. § 

Youth will have needs dalliance, 
Of good or ill some pastance ; 
Company me thinketh them best, 
All thoughts and fantasies to digest. 

Until. f Whoso. J Pastime. § Hinder. 



THE KINGES BALADE. 

For idleness 

Is chief mistress 

Of vices all : 

Then who can say, 
But, pass the day, 

Is best of all ! 

Company with honesty, 

Is virtue and vice to flee ; 

Company is good or ill ; 

But every man hath his free will. 

The best t' ensue, * 

The worst t' eschew, 

My mind shall be. 
Virtue to use, 
Vice to refuse, 

I shall use me. 

Evans. 



229 



Seek after— lay hold of. 



A SONG TO THE LUTE IN 
MUSIC. 



Composed by Richard Edwards, who was gentleman of the 
chapel, and master of the choir, to Queen Elizabeth : the song is, 
however, said to have been written in the time of Henry VIII. 
The first four lines are quoted by Shakspeare, in " Romeo and 
Juliet," act 4, sc. 5. 



When griping griefs the heart would wound, 
And doleful dumps the mind oppress, 

There Music, with her silver sound, 
With speed is wont to send redress : 

Of troubled minds, in every sore, 

Sweet Music hath a salve in store. 

In joy, it makes our mirth abound ; 

In woe, it cheers our heavy sprights ; 
Be-straughted heads relief hath found, 

By Music's pleasant, sweet delights : 
Our senses all, what shall I say more ? 
Are subject unto Music's lore. 



SONG TO THE LUTE. 

The gods by Music have their praise ; 

The life, the soul, therein doth joy : — 
For, as the Romayn poet * says : 

In seas, whom pirates would destroy, 
A dolphin saved from death most sharp, — 
Arion playing on his harp. 

O heavenly gift ! that rules the mind, 
Ev'n as the stern doth rule the ship ! 

O Music ! whom the gods assigned 
To comfort man, whom cares would nip ! 

Since thou both man and beast dost move, 

What beast is he, will thee disprove ? 



231 



Percy. 



* Ovid — from Herodotus. The Delphin editor of Virgil seriously asserts, 
that this fish has been known to be enticed and tamed by the power of 
music— Every one has read Shakspeare's rather too highly-coloured picture, 
of the heart which 

" Is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus ! — 
Let no such man be trusted." 

Our great reformer, Luther, expresses his admiration of music in very 
naive and forcible language. " Music is one of the most beautiful and glo- 
rious gifts of God, to which the Evil One is a bitter enemy. By music, 
many tribulations and evil thoughts are driven away. It is one of the best 
arts ; the notes give life to the text. It expelleth melancholy, as we see in 
King Saul. Music is the best solace for a sad and sorrowful mind. By 
means of music the heart is comforted, and settles again to peace. It is said 
in Virgil, 

' To calamos inflate leves, ego dicere versus.' 

Play thou the notes, and I will sing the words. 

Music is one half of discipline, and a schoolmistress that makes men more 
gentle and meek — more modest and intelligent. Music is a gift of God, and 
nearly allied to theology. I would not for a great deal be destitute of the 
small skill in music 1 have." — Luther's Colloquia Mensalia ; or, Table 
Talk. By Dr. Aurifaber. 1569.— Ad. 



SONNET 

M \Bxzi$t at fyz §k\x Ctoattrmr. 

BY HENRY HOWARD EARL OF SURREY. 

[About 1540.] 



From Tuscane came my lady's worthy race, 

Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat ; 
The Western Isle, whose pleasant shore doth face 

Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat. 
Fostered she was, with milk of Irish breast : 

Her sire, an earl; her dame, of prince's blood; 
From tender years, in Britain she doth rest, 

With King 's child, * where she tasteth costly food. 
Honsdon did first present her to mine eyn ; 

Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight. 
Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine, 

And Windsor, alas ! doth chase me from her sight. 
Her beauty of kind, f her virtue from above ; 
Happy is he that can obtain her love ! 

Ritson. 



* Maid of honour to the Princess Mary. 

t Of Consanguinity, i. e. derived from her ancestors. 



DESCRIPTION OF SPRING 



BY THE SAME. 



The soote * Season that bud and bloom forth brings, 

With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale ; 
The nightingale, with feathers new she sings ; 

The turtle to her make f hath told her tale. 
Summer is come ! for every spray now springs : 

The hart hath hung his old head J on the pale ; 
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 

The fishes fleet § with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she flings ; 

The swift swallow pursueth the flies small ; 
The busy bee her honey now she mings : || 

Winter is worn, that was the flower's bale. — 
And thus I see, among these pleasant things, 

Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs ! 

Campbell. 



Sweet. t Mate. J Horns 

Swim fleetly. j Mixes. 



ON MUSIC. 

BY WILLIAM STROUD. 

[About 1620.] 



When whispering winds that creeping steal, 

Distil soft passions through the heart ; 
And when at every touch we feel 
Our senses join and hear a part; 
When threats can make 
A heart-string ache ; — 
Philosophy 
Can scarce deny 
Our souls are made of harmony. 

When unto heavenly joys we fain 

Whate'er the soul affecteth most ; 
Which only thus we can explain, 
By Music of the heavenly host ; 
Whose lays, we think, 
Make stars to wink ; — 
Philosophy 
Will ne'er deny 
Our souls consist of harmony. 

O lull me, lull me, charming Air ! 

My senses rock with wonders sweet : 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet ! — 
Grief, who needs fear, 
That hath an ear ? — 
Down let him lie, 
And slumb'ring die, 
And change his soul for harmony ! 

Jamieson. 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT.* 



Blow, Warder ! blow thy sounding horn, 

And thy banner wave on high; 
For the Christians have fought in the Holy Land, 

And have won the victory ! 
Loud, loud the warder blew his horn, 

And his banner waved on high : 
" Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, 

And the feast eat merrily!" 

Then bright the castle banners shone 

On every tower on high, 
And all the minstrels sang aloud 

For the Christians' victory : 
And loud the warder blew his horn, 

On every turret high, — 
" Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, 

And the feast eat merrily !" 

The warder he looked from the tower on high, 

As far as he could see : 
" I see a bold Knight! and by his red cross, 

He comes from the East country." 

* The preceding Ballads of this Selection may be distinguished by the 
term, " Ancient Ballads ;" being supposed to be, generally speaking, and 
in their original state, not less than two hundred years old. Those that 
follow, have, for the most part, been written within the last seventy years ; 
and several of them, since the commencement of the present Century. 



236 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



Then loud that warder blew his horn ; 
And called, till he was hoarse, — 
" There comes a bold Knight, and on his shield bright 
He beareth a flaming cross." 

Then down the Lord of the castle came, 

The Red-cross Knight to meet ; 
And when the Red-cross Knight he 'spied, 

Right loving he did him greet : 
" Thou 'rt welcome here, Sir Red-cross Knight, 
For thy fame 's well known to me ! 
And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, 
And we '11 feast right merrily! " 

" Oh, I am come from the Holy Land, 

Where Christ did live and die ; 
Behold the device I bear on my shield, 

The Red-cross Knight am I : 
And we have fought in the Holy Land. 

And we 've won the victory ; 
For with valiant might, did the Christians fight, 

And made the proud Pagans fly." 

" Thou 'rt welcome here, dear Red-cross Knight ! 

Come, lay thy armour by ; 
And, for the good tidings thou dost bring, 

We '11 feast us merrily : 
For all in my castle shall rejoice, 

That we 've won the victory ; 
And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, 

And the feast eat merrily!" 

" Oh, I cannot stay" (cried the Red-cross Knight), 

But must go to my own country ; 
Where manors and castles will be my reward, 

And all for my bravery." 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



23; 



" Oh ! say not so, thou Red-cross Knight ! 
But if you '11 bide with me, 
With manors so wide, and castles beside, 
I'll honour thy bravery." 

" I cannot stay (cried the Red-cross Knight), 

Nor can I bide with thee : 
But I must haste to my king and his knights, 

Who 're waiting to feast with me." 
" Oh ! mind them not, dear Red-cross Knight ! 

But stay and feast with me ; 
x\nd the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, 

And we'll banquet merrily !" 

" I cannot stay (cried the Red-cross Knight), 

Nor can I feast with thee : 
But I must haste to a pleasant bower, 

Where a lady 's waiting for me !" 
" O say not so, dear Red-cross Knight, 

Nor heed that fond lady ; 
For she can 't compare with my daughter so rare, 

And she shall attend on thee." 

" Now must I go (said the Red-cross Knight), 

For that lady I 'm to wed ; 
And the feast-guests and bride-maids all are met, 

And prepared the bridal bed !" 
" Now nay ! now nay ! thou Red-cross Knight, 

My daughter shall wed with thee : 
And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, 

And we'll feast right merrily !" 

And now the silver lute's sweet soimd 

Re-echoed through the hall, 
And in that lord's fair daughter came, 

With her ladies clad in pall ; 



238 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



That lady was decked in costly robes, 
And shone as bright as day ; 
And with courtesy sweet the knight she did greet, 
And pressed him for to stay. 

" Right welcome, brave Sir Red-cross Knight ! 

Right welcome unto me : 
And here I hope long time thou It stay, 

And bear us company ; 
And for thy exploits in the Holy Land, 
That hath gained us the victory, 
The mass shall be sung, and the bells be rung, 
And we '11 feast right merrily !" 

" Though ever thou press me, lady fair ! 

I cannot stay with thee." 
That lady frowned, to hear that knight 

So slight her courtesy. 
" It grieves me much, thou lady fair ! 

That here I cannot stay • 
For a beauteous lady is waiting for me, 

Whom I 've not seen many a day." 

" Now fie on thee, uncourteous knight! 

Thou shouldst not say me nay : 
As for the lady that 's waiting for thee, 

Go see her another day. 
So say no more; but stay, brave knight ! 

And bear us company ; 
And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, 

And we'll feast right merrily !" 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



PART II. 



And, as the lady pressed the knight, 

With her ladies clad in pall ; 
Oh ! then hespake a pilgrim-boy, 

As he stood in the hall. 
" Now Christ thee save ! Sir Red-cross Knight, 

I 'm come from the North country ; 
Where a lady is laid all on her death-bed, 

And evermore calls for thee." 

" Alas ! alas ! thou pilgrim-boy, 

Sad news thou tellest me ; 
Now must I ride full hastily, 

To comfort that dear lady ! 
" Oh — heed him not ! (the ladies cried), 

But send a page to see ; 
While the mass is sung, and the bells are rung, 

And we feast merrily !" 

Again bespake the pilgrim-boy, 

" Ye need not send to see : 
For know, Sir Knight, that lady's dead, 

And died for love of thee !" 



240 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



Oh ! then the Red-cross Knight was pale, 
And not a word could say ! 
But his heart did swell, and his tears down fell, 
And he almost swoon'd away. 

" Now, fie on thee ! thou weakly knight, 

To weep for a lady dead : 
Were I a noble knight like thee, 

I 'd find another to wed. 
So, come cheer and comfort thy heart, 

And be good company ; 
And the mass shall be sung, and the bells be rung, 

And we '11 feast thee merrily !" 

In vain that wily lady strove 

The sorrowing knight to cheer ; 
Each word he answered with a groan, 

Each soothing with a tear. 
" And now, farewell, thou noble lord, 

And farewell, lady fair ! 
In pleasure and joy, your hours employ, 

Nor think of my despair. 

" And where is her grave? (cried the Red-cross Knight), 

The grave where she doth lay!" 
" Oh ! I know it well (cried the pilgrim-boy), 

And I '11 shew thee on the way." 
The knight was sad, the pilgrim sighed, 

While the warder loud did cry, 
" Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, 

And the feast eat merrily !" 

Meanwhile arose the lord's daughter, 

And to her ladies did call : 
" Oh ! what shall we say, to stay the knight, 

For he must not leave the hall !" 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



241 



For much that lady was in love 

With the gallant Red-cross Knight ; 
And ere many a day, with this knight so gay, 
Had hoped her troth to plight. 

Oh ! then bespake these ladies gay, 

As they stood clad in pall : 
" Oh! we'll devise how to make this knight 

Stay in the castle hall." 
" Now that 's well said, my ladies dear ; 

And if he '11 stay with me, 
Then the mass shall be sung, and the bells be rung, 

And we'll feast right merrily ! " 

Then softly spake those ladies fair, 

Low whispering at the wall : 
" Oh, we 've devised how to keep the knight 

In thy fair castle hall : 
Now, lady, command the warder blithe, 

To come from yon tower high, 
With tidings to say to inveigle away 

Yon wily pilgrim-boy!" 

" Go, run ! go, run ! my foot-page dear, 

To the warder take thy way, 
And one of my ladies shall go with thee, 

To tell thee what to say : 
And now, if we can but compel the knight 
To stay in the castle with me, 
Then the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, 
And we '11 all feast merrily." 

The warder came, and blew his horn, 

And thus aloud did cry : 
" Ho ! is there a pilgrim in the hall, 

Come from the North country? 

M 



242 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT, 



For there 's a foot-page waits without, 
To speak with him alone." 
Thus the warder did call, till out of the hall 
The pilgrim-boy is gone. 

Meanwhile bespake the ladies gay, 

As they stood clad in pall, 
" Right glad, brave knight, we welcome thee 

Unto our castle hall." 
But the knight he heeded not their talk, 

Although they cried with glee, 
" Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, 

And feast thee merrily!" 

" But where 's the pilgrim-boy (he cried), 

To shew me my lady's grave?" 
That he should be sought for throughout the place, 

The knight full oft did crave. 
Then loud replied the ladies gay, 

" Now foul that knave befall ; 
For lucre he hath beguiled thee, 

And now hath fled the hall. 

" And now, Sir Knight, do not give heed 

To what he said to thee, 
But send a page to the North country, 

That lady fair to see ; 
And, while he 's gone to comfort her, 

O, thou shalt share our glee ; 
While the mass is sung, and the bells are rung, 

And the feast eat merrily !" 

But while those ladies, blithe and gay, 

Attuned their lutes to joy, 
The knight was sad, and searched around, 

To find the pilgrim-boy : 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



243 



He searched the castle hall about, 
Through every turn and wind ; 
But all in vain his toil and pain, 
The pilgrim-boy to find. 

In vain the lord's fair daughter sent 

Her messengers to call 
The knight; he would not heed their words, 

Nor enter the castle hall. 
In vain the wanton ladies sung, 

And clamorous warders cry, — 
" Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung,. 

And the feast eat merrily !" 

O, then bespake those ladies gay, 

As they stood clad in pall, 
" Weep not, weep not, dear lady, 

Though he '11 not enter the ha!l ; 
But send the warder from the tower, 

To bring the pilgrim-boy, 
Whom we '11 persuade to lend his aid, 

This proud knight to decoy. 

" We '11 make that boy, on pain of death, 

The Red-cross Knight deceive : 
So that no more on his account 

The fair young Knight shall grieve ; 
And then we '11 keep the Red-cross Knight, 

To bear us company ; 
And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung. 

And we will feast merrily !" 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



PART III. 



And now 't was night, all dark and drear, 

And cold, cold blew the wind, 
While the Red-cross Knight sought all about, 

The pilgrim-boy to find. 
And still he wept, and still he sighed, 

As he mourned his lady dear! — 
And where 's the feast ; and where 's the guest, 

Thy bridal bed to cheer ? 

Again he sighed ; and wept forlorn, 

For his lady that was dead ! — 
Lady, how sad thy wedding-tide ! 

How cold thy bridal bed ! 
Thus the Red-cross Knight roamed sore and sad. 

While all around did cry, — 
" Let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, 

And the feast be eat merrily !" 

And now the gentle moon around 

Her silver lustre shed, 
Brightened each ancient wall and tower, 

And distant mountain's head ; 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 

By whose sweet light the knight perceived, 
(A sight which gave him joy !) 
From a dungeon dread, the warder led, 
The faithful pilgrim-boy ! 

In vain the warder strove to hide 

The pilgrim-boy from him : 
The knight he ran and clasped the youth, 

In spite of the warder grim. 
The warder, though wrath, his banner waved; 

And still aloud did cry, 
u Let the minstrels sing, and the bells yring, 

And the feast eat merrily." 

" I 'm glad I 've found thee, pilgrim-boy ! 

And thou shalt go with me ; 
And thou shalt lead to my lady's grave, 

And great thy reward shall be." 
The affrighted pilgrim wrung his hands, 

And shed mil many a tear : — 
" Her grave," he cried, and mournful sighed, 

" I dread 's — not far from here !" 

The knight he led the pilgrim-boy 

Into the castle hall, 
Where sat the lord, and his daughter fair, 

And the ladies clad in pall. 
" I go ! (he cried), with the pilgrim-boy, 

So think no more of me ; 
But let your minstrels sing, and your bells all ring, 

And feast ye merrily ! " 

Up then arose the lord's daughter, 

And called to the pilgrim-boy — 
" Oh ! come to me ! for I 've that to say 

Will give to thee much joy.'' 



24, 



246 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



Full loath the pilgrim was to go, 
Full loath from the knight to part : 
And lo ! out of spite, with a dagger bright, 
She hath stabbed him to the heart ! 

" Why art thou pale, thou pilgrim-boy?" 

The knight, all wondering, cried ; 
" Why dost thou faint, thou pilgrim-boy, 

When I am by thy side?" 
" Oh! I am stabbed, dear Red-cross Knight, 

Yet grieve not thou for me ; 
But let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, 

And feast thee merrily !" 

The knight he ran and clasped the youth. 

And op'd his pilgrim-vest ; 
And, lo ! it was his lady fair, — 

His lady dear, he pressed ! 
Her lovely breast, like ermine white, 

Was panting with the fright ; 
Her dear heart's blood, in crimson flood, 

Ran pouring in his sight. 

" Grieve not for me, my faithful knight! " 

The lady, faint, did cry ; 
" I 'm well content, my faithful knight, 

Since in thy arms I die ! — 
Then comfort thee, my constant love ! 

Nor think thee more of me ; 
Rut let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, 

And feast thee merrily ! 

" Like pilgrim-boy, I 've followed thee, 

In truth, full cheerfully ; 
Resolved, if thou shouldst come to ill, 

Dear knight ! to die with thee : 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 

And much I feared, some wily fair 
Would keep thee from my sight ; 
And by her bright charms, lure from my arms 
My dear-loved Red-cross Knight!" 

•' Oh, Heaven forfend ! " the knight replied. 

" That thou shouldst die for me ; 
But if so hapless is thy fate, 

Thy knight will die with thee !" 
*' O, say not so ! for well my knight 

Hath proved his love to me ! 
But let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring. 

And feast thee merrily !" 

The knight he pressed her to his heart, 

And bitterly he sighed : 
The lovely lady strove to cheer, 

Till in his arms she died ! 
The knight he laid her corpse adown, 

And his deadly sword drew forth ; 
Then looked he around, and grimly frowned. 

All woe-begone with wrath. 

O, then bespake the ladies fair, 

As they stood clad in pall, 
" Oh ! this will be our burial place 

That was our castle hall. — 
No more to our silver lute's sweet sound 

Shall we dance with revelry ; 
Nor the mass be simg, nor the bells be rung, 

Nor the feast be eat merrily!" 

Then up arose the lord's daughter, 

And never a word spake she, 
But quick upon the knight's drawn sword 

She flung her, franticly : 



247 



248 



THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 



The knight to his own dear lady turned, 
And laid him by her side ; 
With tears embraced her bleeding corpse, 
Sighed her dear name — and died ! 

O, then bespake the affrighted lord, 

And full of woe, spake he : 
" Foul fall the hour this Red-cross Knight 

Did come to visit me ! 
For now no more will my daughter fair 

Rejoice my guests and me ; 
Nor the mass be sung, nor the bells be rung, 

Nor the feast held merrily !" 

And then he spake to the ladies fair, 

As they stood clad in pall, 
" Lo ! this thy lady's burial place, 

That was her castle hall ! 
Oh then be warned, from her sad fate, 

And hate the wanton love ; 
But in Him confide who for thee died 

And now sits throned above ! 

" Warder, no more resound thy horn, 

Nor thy banner wave on high ; 
Nor the mass be sung, nor the bells be rung, 

Nor the feast eat merrily. " 
No more the warder blows his horn, 

Nor his banner waves on high, 
Nor the mass is sung, nor the bells 'yrung, 

Nor the feast eat merrily. 

Evans. 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET, 

% 3U(jen&ar£ Cat*. 



BY THOMAS HULL. 



" The poem is written in a descriptive strain of elegiac verse, and 
exhibits a venerable example of passive fortitude and resignation to 
the will of Heaven." — Critical Review, April, 1774. 



" The work is done ! the structure is complete. — 
Long may this produce of my humble toil 

Uninjured stand : and echo long repeat, 

Round the dear walls, Benevolence and Moyle ! "* 

So Richard spake, as he surveyed 

The dwelling he had raised ; 
And, in the fulness of his heart, 

His generous patron praised. 

* Sir Thomas Moyle, possessor of Eastwell-Place, in Kent, in ihe year 
1546, gave Richard Plantagenet (who for many years had been his chief 
bricklayer) a piece of ground, and permission to build himself a house 
thereon. The poem opens, just when Richard is supposed to have finished 
this task. Eastwell-Place has since been in the possession of the Earls of 
Winchilsea. 

M 2 



250 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



Him Moyle o'erheard, whose wandering step 

Chance guided had that way ; 
The workman's mien he ey'd intent, 

Then earnest thus did say : 

" My mind, I see, misgave me not ; 

My doubtings now are clear ; 
Thou oughtest not, in poor attire, 

Have dwelt a menial here. 

" To drudgery, and servile toil, 

Thou couldst not be decreed 
By birth and blood ; but thereto wrought 

By hard o'er-ruling need. 

" Is it not so ? That crimson glow, 

That flushes o'er thy cheek, 
And down-cast eye, true answer give, 

And thy tongue need not speak. 

" Oft have I marked thee, when unseen 

Thou thought'st thyself by all, 
What time the workman from his task 

The evening bell did call, 

" Hast thou not shunned thy untaught mates, 

And to some secret nook, 
With drooping gait and musing eye, 
Thy lonely step betook ? 

" There has not thy attention dwelt 

Upon the lettered page ; 
Lost, as it seemed, to all beside, 

Like some sequestered sage ? 

" And would st thou not, with eager haste, 

The precious volume hide, 
If sudden some intruder's eye 

Thy musings had descried ? 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 

" Oft have I deemed thou couldst explore 
The Greek and Roman page ; 

And oft have yearned to view the theme, 
That did thy hours engage. 

" But sorrow, — greedy, grudging, coy, 

Esteems of mighty price 
Its treasured cares, and to the world 

The scantiest share denies ; 

" All as the miser's heaped hoards, 

To him alone confined, 
They serve, at once, to sooth and pain 

The wretched owner's mind. 

" Me had capricious fortune doomed 

Thine equal in degree, 
Long, long ere now, I had desired 

To know thine history ; 

" But who their worldly honours wear 
With meekness chaste and due, 

Decline to ask, lest the request 
Should hear commandment's hue. 

" Yet now thy tongue hath spoke aloud 

Thy grateful piety, 
No longer be thy story kept 

In painful secrecy. 

" Give me to know thy dawn of life ; 

Unfold, with simple truth, 
Not to thy master, but thy friend, 

The promise of thy youth. 

" Now, late in life, 'tis time, I ween, 

To give thy labours o'er; 
Thy well-worn implements lay by, 

And drudge and toil no more. 



25 



252 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



" Here shalt thou find a quiet rest 

For all thy days to come ; 
And every comfort, that may serve 

To endear thy humble home. 

" Hast thou a wish, a hope to frame, 

Beyond this neat abode ? — 
Is there a good, a higher bliss, 

By me may be bestowed? — 

"Is there within thy aged breast 

The smallest aching void ? 
Give me to know thy longings all, 

And see them all supplied! 

" All I entreat, in lieu, is this, — 

Unfold, with simple truth, 
Not to thy master, but thy friend, 

The promise of thy youth." 

So generous Moyle intent bespake 

The long-enduring man ; 
Who raised, at length, his drooping head, 

And sighing, — thus began : 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET* RECITES HIS TALE. 



Hard task to any, but thyself, to tell 

The story of my birth and treacherous fate, 

Or paint the tumults in my breast that swell, 
At recollection of my infant state! 

Oft have I laboured to forget my birth, 

And checked remembrance, when, in cruel wise, 

From time's abyss she would the tale draw forth, 
And place my former self before my eyes. 

Yet I complain not, though I feel anew 
All as I speak, fell fortune's bitter spite, 

Who once set affluence, grandeur in my view, 

Then churlish snatched them from my cheated sight. 

And yet it may be — is — nay, must be, best, 

Whate'er heaven's righteous laws for man ordain ; — 

Weak man ! who lets one sigh invade his breast, 
For earthly grandeur, fugitive as vain ! — 

Perchance contentment had not been my mate, 

If in exalted life my feet had trod; 
Or my hands borne, in transitory state, 

The victor's truncheon, or the ruler's rod. 

• Such a person, who was a natural son of Richard Duke of Gloucester, 
the Usurper, actually lived and died in the parish of Eastwell in Kent. 
His death is recorded in the Parish Register, at the year 1550, and in the 
eighty-first year of his age. Without any derogation from the excellence 
and exemplary patience of the innocent son, the Editor cannot help observ- 
ing, that the character of the truly unprincipled and sanguinary Richard I IT, 
has been in vain attempted to be glossed over in the poem, 



254 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



My course, perchance, had been one dazzling glare 
Of splendid pride, and I in vain had sought 

The quiet comforts of this humble sphere, — 
Rest undisturbed, and reason's tranquil thought. 

But whither roam I ? Oh ! forgive, my kind, 
My honoured lord, this undesigned delay ; 

Forgive, while in my newly- 'wakened mind 
A thousand vague ideas fondly play. 

Enough ! — they 're flown : and now my tongue prepares, 
Thou source of every good by me possest ! 

To pour a tale into thy wondering ears, 

Full threescore years close-locked within my breast. 

Of those care-woven, long-protracted years, 
Some sixteen summers passed obscurely on, — 

A stranger to the world, its hopes and fears, 
My name, birth, fortunes, to myself unknown. 

Placed in a rural, soft, serene retreat, 

With a deep-learned divine I held abode, 

Who sought, by pious laws and conduct meet, 
The way to immortality and God ! 

By him instructed, I attained the sweet, 

The precious blessings that from learning flow ; 

He fanned in my young breast the genial heat, 
That bids the expanding mind with ardour glow. 

He taught me with delighted eye to trace 
The comely beauties of the Mantuan page ; 

Enraptured, mix with Tully's polished grace, 
Or catch the flame of Homer's martial rage. 

Nor stopped he there, preceptor excellent ! 

Nor deemed that wisdom lay in books alone ; 
But would explain what moral virtue meant, 

And bid us make our neighbour's woes our own. 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



255 



Heaven's genuine pity glistening in his eyes, 

The sweets of charity he would instil ; 
And teach what blessedness of comfort lies 

In universal mercy and good will. 

So taught this pious man, — so thought, — so did; 

Squaring his actions to his tenets true ; 
His counsel or relief to none denied, — 

A general good, like Heaven's all-cheering dew ! 

Thus guided, thus informed, thus practice-drawn, 
In guileless peace my spring of life was spent ; 

My leisure-hours I sported o'er the lawn, 

Nor knew what restless care or sorrow meant. 

A courteous stranger, ever and anon, 

My kind instructor's due reward supplied ; 

But still my name, my birth, alike unknown, 
Wrapt in the gloom of secresy, lay hid. 

One autumn-morn (the time I well recall) 
That stranger drew me from my soft retreat, 

And led my footsteps to a lofty hall, 

Where state and splendour seemed to hold their seat. 

Through a long range of spacious gilded rooms 

Dubious I passed, admiring as I went, 
On the rich woven labours of the looms, 

The sculptured arch, or painted roof, intent. 

My guide, at length, withdrew; — wrapt in suspense 
And fear I stood, yet knew not what I feared ; 

When straight to my appalled, astounded sense, 
A man of noble port and mien appeared ! 

His form commanded, and his visage awed ; 

My spirit sunk as he advanced nigh ; 
With stately step along the floor he trod — 

Fixed on my face his penetrating eye. 



256 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



The dancing plumage o'er his front waved high, 
Thick-studded ribs of gold adorned his vest ; 

In splendid folds his purple robe did fly, 
And royal emblems glittered on his breast. 

I sought to bend me, but my limbs refused 

Their wonted office — motionless and chill ; 
Yet somewhat, as the figure I perused, 
A dubious joy did in my mind instil. 

While thus I cowered beneath his piercing eye, 
He saw, and strove to mitigate my fear 

Soft'ning the frown of harsh austerity 

In his bold brow, which nature grafted there. 

With speeches kind, he cheered my sinking heart, 
Questioned me much, and stroked my drooping head ; 

Yet his whole mind he seemed not to impart, 
His looks implied more than his speeches said. 

A 'broidered purse, which weighty seemed with gold, 
He gave me then, and kindly pressed my hand ; 

And thus awhile did stay me in his hold, 
And on my face did meditating stand. 

His soul worked hugely, and his bosom swelled, 
As though some mighty thing he yearned to say ; 

But (with indignant pride the thought repelled) 
He started, frowned, and snatched himself away. 

My guide returned, and re-conducted me 
Toward the abode of my preceptor kind : 

A man he seemed of carriage mild and free, 
To whom I thought I might unload my mind. 

Without reserve I told him all that passed, 
Striving, by mine, his confidence to gain; 

Then my inquiries frank before him cast, 
Hoping some knowledge of myself t' attain. 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



257 



1 asked what wondrous cause, yet undescried, 
Urged him his time and zeal for me t' employ; 

And why that man of dignity and pride, 
Had deigned his notice to a stranger-boy ? 

Confused, yet undispleased my guide appeared, 

Nought he divulged (though much he seemed to know) 

Save this, which he with earnest look averred, 
' No obligation, youth, to me you owe. 

' I do but what my place and duty bid ; 

With me, no kindred drops of blood you share ; 
Yet (hard to tell !) your birth must still be hid : 

Inquire no farther — Honour bids forbear.' 

Thus he reproved ; yet did it with a look, 
As though he pitied my sensations keen : 

Patient, I bowed me to his mild rebuke, 

And pledged obedience with submissive mien. 

He left me at my tutor's soft abode ; 

And parting, blessed me by the Holy Cross ; — 
My heart waxed sad, as he retraced the road, 

And seemed to have sustained some mighty loss. 

But soon tumultuous thoughts 'gan to give way, 
Lulled by the voice of my preceptor sage ; 

Unquiet bosoms he could well allay, 

His looks could soften, and his words assuage. 

Unruly care from him was far removed, 

Grief's wildest murmurs at his breath would cease; 

Oh ! in his blameless life how well he proved, 
The house of goodness is the house of peace ! 

Here I again enjoyed my sweet repose ; 

And taught my heart, with pious wisdom filled, 
No more with anxious throb to seek disclose 

What stubborn fate had doomed to lie concealed. 



258 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



But long these fond delusions did not last, 
Some sterner power my rising life controlled, 

My visionary hopes too swiftly past, 

And left my prospects dreary, dark, and cold. 

When rugged March o'er-rules the growing year, 
Have we not seen the morn with treacherous ray 

Shine out awhile, then instant disappear, 

And leave to damp and gloom the future day ? 

So dawned my fate, and so deceived my heart, 
Nor weaned me from my hopes, but cruel, tore ; 

In one unlooked-for moment, bade me part 
From all my comforts, to return no more. 

My guide once more arrived, though, as of late, 
Of soft deportment he appeared not now ; 

But wild impatience fluttered in his gait, 

And care and thought seemed busy on his brow. 

1 Rise, youth,' he said, ' and mount this rapid steed, 
I argued not ; his bidding straight was done ; 

Proud-crested was the beast, of warlike breed, 
Armed at all points, with rich caparison. 

We communed not — such heat was in our speed, 
Scantly would it allow me power of thought, 

Till eve, deep-painted with a burning red, 

To Bosworth Field our panting coursers brought. 

Who hath not heard of Bosworth's fatal plain, 
Where base adventurers did in compact join 

'Gainst chiefs of prowess high, and noble strain, 
And lowered the crest of York's imperial line? 

Now verging on that memorable ground, 
Our course we stayed — yet we alighted not : 

Filled with astonishment, I gazed around, 

While in my glowing breast my heart grew hot. 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



259 



Thick-stationed tents, extended wide and far, 
To the utmost stretch of sight, I could behold ; 

And banners fluttering in the whistling air, 
And archers trimly dight, and prancers bold. 

The sinking sun, with richly-burnished glow, 
Now to his western chamber made retire, 

While pointed spears, quick shifting to and fro, 
Seemed all as spiral flames of hottest fire. 

Promiscuous voices filled the floating gale, 

The welkin echoed with the steeds' proud neigh : 

The bands oft turned, and eyed the western vale, 
Watching the closure of departing day. 

Light vanished now apace, and twilight gray 
With speed unusual mantled all the ground ; 

The chieftains to their tents had ta'en their way, 
And sentinels thick posted, watched around. 

As sable night advanced more and more, 
The mingled voices lessened by degrees, 

Sounding at length, as, round some craggy shore, 
Decreasing murmurs of the ebbing seas. 

Now toward the tents awhile we journey 'd on 
With wary pace, then lighted on the ground, 

Befriended by the stars, that glimmering shone, 
And fires, that cast a trembling gleam around. 

With hasty foot we pressed the dewy sod, 
Fit answer making to each stationed guard ; 

When full before us, as we onward trod, 
A martial form our further progress barr'd. 

He seemed as though he there did listening stand, 
His face deep muffled in his folded cloak ; 

Now threw it wide, — snatched quick my dubious hand, 
And to a neighbouring tent his speed betook. 



260 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



With glowing crimson the pavilion shone, 

Reflected by the lofty taper's ray ; 
The polished armour, bright and deft to don, 

Beside the royal couch in order lay. 

The crown imperial glittered in mine eye, 
With various gems magnificently graced ; 

Nigh which, as meant to guard its dignity, 
A weighty curtel-axe unsheathed was placed. 

The chief unbonnetted, and drew me nigh, — 
Wrapt in a deepened gloom his face appeared, 

Like the dark lowerings of the cloudy sky, 
Ere the big, bursting tempest's voice is heard. 

Revenge, impatience, all that mads the soul, 
All that despair and frenzy's flame inspires, 

Shewn by the tapers, in his eyes did roll, — 
Hot meteors they amid the lesser fires. 

Though each dark line I could not truly scan ; 

Yet through the veil of his distempered mien 
Broke forth a likeness of that lofty man, 

Whom, whilom, at the Palace I had seen. 

To quell his feelings huge, he sternly tried, 
Strong combat holding with his fighting soul, 

Cresting himself with more than earthly pride, 

As though from power supreme he scorned control. 

At length (in part subdued his troubled breast), 
On my impatient ear these accents broke : 

(I, pale and trembling as the attentive priest, 
Who waits the inspirings of his mystic oak ! ) 

' Wonder no more why thou art hither brought, 
The secret of thy birth shall now be shewn ; 

With glorious ardour be thy bosom fraught, 
For know, thou art Imperial Richard's son ! 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



261 



' Thy father, I, who fold thee in my arms, 

Thou royal issue of Plantagenet ! * 
Soon as my power hath quelled these loud alarms, 

Thou shalt be known, be honoured, and be great ! 

' Rise from the ground, and dry thy flowing tears, 
To nature's dues be other hours assigned ! 

Beset with foes, solicitude and cares, 

Far other thoughts must now possess the mind. 

' To-morrow, boy ! I combat for my crown, 
To shield from soil my dignity and fame : 

Presumptuous Richmond seeks to win renown, 
And on my ruin, raise his upstart name : 

' He leads yon shallow, renegado band, 
Strangers to war and hazardous emprize, 

And 'gainst the mighty chieftains of the land, 
Vain and unskilled, a desperate conflict tries. 

' Yet, since assurance is not given to man, 
Nor can e'en kings command th' event of war ; 

Since peevish chance can foil the subtlest plan 
Of human skill, and hurl our schemes in air ; 

* It rather should he called Plantagenesf, being derived from the two 
words Planta Genesta, or Genista, — that is, the Plant Broom. It was first 
given to Fulke, Earl of Anjou, who lived a hundred years before the Nor- 
man Conquest. He having been guilty of some enormous crime, was 
enjoined, by way of penance, to go to the Holy Land, and submit to a 
severe castigation. He readily acquiesced, dressed himself in a low attire, 
and, as a mark of humility, wore a piece of broom in his cap, of which 
virtue this plant is a symbol, in the hieroglyphic language ; and Virgil seems 
to confirm it, by calling it humilis genista, — the humble broom. This expia- 
tion finished, Fulke, in remembrance of it, adopted the title of Plantagenet, 
and lived many years in honour and happiness. His descendants accord- 
ingly inherited the name, and many successive nobles of the line of Anjou 
not only did the same, but even distinguished themselves by wearing a sprig 
of broom in their bonnets. — T. H. 



262 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 



' To-morrow's sun beholds me conqueror, 

Or sees me low among the slaughtered lie ; — 

Richard shall never grace a victor's car ; 
But glorious win the field, or glorious die ! 

J But thou, my son, heed and obey my word : 

Seek not to mingle in the wild affray ; 
Far from the winged shaft and gleaming sword, 

Patient, await the issue of the day. 

' North of our camp there stands a rising mound, 
(Thy guide awaits to lead thee on the way) 

Thence shalt thou rule the prospect wide around, 
And view each chance, each movement of the fray. 

' If righteous fate to me the conquest yield, 
Then shall thy noble birth to all be known ; 

Then boldly seek the centre of the field, 

And midst my laurelled bands my son I '11 own ! 

' But if blind chance, that seld' determines right, 

Rob me at once of empire and renown, 
Be sure thy father's eyes are closed in night, — 

Life were disgrace, when chance had reft my crown. 

' No means are left thee then, but instant flight ; 

In dark concealment must thou veil thy head : 
On Richard's friends their fellest rage and spite 

His foes will wreak, and fear e'en Richard dead, 

' Begone, my son ! this one embrace ! Away ! 

Some short reflections, claims this awful night : 
Ere from the East peep forth the glimm'ring day, 

My knights attend to arm me for the fight.' 

Once more I knelt : he clasped my lifted hands, 

Blessed me, and seemed to check a struggling tear ; 

Then led me forth to follow his commands, 

O'erwhelmed with tenderest grief, suspense, and fear. 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 

What need of more? who knows not the event 
Of that dread day, that desperate-foughten field, 

Where, with his wondrous deeds and prowess spent, 
By numbers overpowered, my Sire was killed ! 

A son no more, what course was left to tread? 

To whom apply, or whither should I wend? 
Back to my tutor's roof, by instinct led, 

My orphan footsteps did I pensive bend. 

O'er-ruling fate against my wishes wrought : 
That pious man, snatched from this frail abode, 

Had found the blessing he so long had sought, — 
The way to immortality and God! 

With flowing eyes, I left the sacred door, 
And with relying heart to heaven did bend ; 

To God my supplication did I pour, 

To God, — the mourner's best and surest friend ;- 

That he would guide me to some safe retreat, 
Where daily toil my daily bread might earn ; 

Where pious peace might soothe ambition's heat, 
And my taught heart sublimer ardour learn. 

He heard me ; —all I asked, in thee was lent, 
Thou lib'ral proxy of my gracious God! 

Thou paid'st my industry with rich content, 
And giv'st my weary age this soft abode. 

" The work is done, the structure is complete. — 
Long may the produce of my humble toil 

Uninjured stand : and echo long repeat, 
Round the dear walls, Benevolence and Moyle ! " 



263 



HENGIST AND MEY. 



BY W. MICKLE. 



In ancient days, when Arthur reigned, 

Sir Elmer had no peer ; 
And no young knight in all the land 

The ladies loved so dear. 

His sister, Mey, the fairest maid 

Of all the virgin train, 
Won every heart at Arthur's court ; 

But all their love was vain. 

In vain they loved, in vain they vowed ; 

Her heart they could not move : 
Yet, at the evening hour of prayer, 

Her mind was lost in love. 

The abbess saw — the abbess knew, 

And urged her to explain : 
" O name the gentle youth to me, 

And his consent I'll gain." 

Long urged, long tried, fair Mey replied, 
" His name — how can I say? 

An angel from the fields above 
Has 'rapt my heart away. 



KENGIST AND MEY. 

" But once, alas ! and never more, 

His lovely form I 'spied ; 
One evening, by the sounding shore, 

All by the green-wood side. 

" His eyes to mine the love confest, 
That glowed with mildest grace ; 

His courtly mien and purple vest 
Bespoke his princely race. 

" But when he heard my brother's horn, 

Fast to his ships he fled ; 
Yet, while I sleep, his graceful form 

Still hovers round my bed. 

" Sometimes, all clad in armour bright, 

He shakes a warlike lance ; 
And now, in courtly garments dight, 

He leads the sprightly dance. 

" His hair, as black as raven's wing ; 

His skin — as Christmas snow ; 
His cheeks outvie the blush of morn, 

His lips like rose-buds glow. 

" His limbs, his arms, his stature shaped 

By nature's finest hand ; 
His sparkling eyes declare him born 

To love, and to command." 

The live-long year, fair Mey bemoaned 

Her hopeless, pining love : 
But when the balmy spring returned, 

And summer clothed the grove, 

All round by pleasant Humber side, 

The Saxon banners flew, 
And to Sir Elmer's castle gates 

The spearmen came in view. 

N 



265 



266 



HENGIST AND MEY. 

Fair blushed the morn, when Mey looked o'er 

The castle walls so sheen ; 
And lo ! the warlike Saxon youth 

Were sporting on the green. 

There Hengist, Offa's eldest son, 

Leaned on his burnished lance, 
And all the armed youth around 

Obeyed his manly glance. 

His locks, as black as raven's wing, 

Adown his shoulders flowed ; 
His cheeks outvied the blush of morn, 

His lips like rose-buds glowed. 

And soon, the lovely form of Mey 

Has caught his piercing eyes ; 
He gives the sign, the bands retire, 

While big with love he sighs. 

" Oh, thou ! for whom I dared the seas, 

And came with peace or war ; 
Oh ! by that cross that veils thy breast, 

Relieve thy lover's care ! 

" For thee, I'll quit my father's throne ; 

With thee, the wilds explore ; 
Or with thee share the British crown ; 

With thee, the Cross adore." 

Beneath the timorous virgin blush, 
With love's soft warmth she glows ; 

So, blushing through the dews of morn, 
Appears the opening rose. 

'T was now the hour of morning prayer, 

When men their sins bewail, 
And Elmer heard King Arthur's horn, 

Shrill sounding through the dale. 



HENGIST AND MEY. 



267 



The pearly tears from Mey's bright eyes, 

Like April dew-drops fell, 
When, with a parting, dear embrace, 

Her brother bade farewell. 

The cross with sparkling diamonds bright, 

That veiled the snowy breast, 
With prayers to Heaven her lily hands 

Have fixed on Elmer's vest. 

Now, with five hundred bowmen true, 

He 's marched across the plain ; 
Till with his gallant yeomandrie, 

He joined King Arthur's train. 

Full forty thousand Saxon spears 

Came glittering down the hill, 
And with their shouts and clang of arms 

The distant valleys fill. 

Old Offa, dressed in Odin's garb,* 

Assumed the hoary god ; 
And Hengist, like the warlike Thor, 

Before the horsemen rode. 

* Odin, the celebrated head of the Northern Mythology, was probably, at 
some very early period, a conqueror or monarch, whom the zeal of his sub- 
jects deified after death. According to the opinions of those who assign to 
him the highest antiquity, he existed in the first Scythian empire, — Seven 
Hundred, or perhaps One Thousand years B.C. Others suppose him to have 
been the person who led the Asiatic Scythians (now Tartarians, Siberians, 
&c.) into Europej when they conquered Scandinavia (Sweden, Denmark, 
&c.) — about Five Hundred years B.C. In answer to this, it has again been 
urged, that it was only the name and worship of Odin which they brought 
with them, and under whose banners they marched to conquest. To one or 
other, however, of these dates must be referred the era of the first and real 
Odin, unless he had, as & fourth party thinks, only an allegorical existence. 
He was styled the God of War, and was held to be the Supreme Deity, by a 
people who placed their principal and almost their only virtues in conquest 
and slaughter. Hence, in conformity with this, their Mythology and ideas 
of a future state, were amongst the worst corruptions of the primitive truths 



268 



HENGIST AND MET. 



With dreadful rage the combat burns,. 

The captains shout amain ; 
And Elmer's tall victorious spear 
_ Far glances o'er the plain. 

To stop its course young Hengist flew> 

Like lightning, o'er the field ; 
And soon his eyes the well known cross 

On Elmer's vest beheld. 

The slighted lover swelled his breast, 

His eyes shot living fire ! 
And all his martial heat before, 

To this was mild desire. 

On his imagined rival's front, 

With whirlwind speed he pressed, 
And glancing to the sun, his sword 

Resounds on Elmer's crest. 

The foe gave way ; — the princely youth 

With heedless rage pursued, 
Till trembling in his cloven helm 

Sir Elmer's javelin stood. 

that the annals of the world have presented. They had none of those 
romantic beauties which were thickly strewn throughout the systems of 
Greece and Rome ; nor of those occasional instances of fidelity of principle 
which shone through their veiling tissue of fantastic absurdity. 

A second Odin is said to have appeared about the year 70, B. C. — a 
warrior and priest, who assumed the name and some of the properties of his 
prototype, and obtained the sovereignty of Scandinavia, where he established 
a new code, which, like Mahomet, he confirmed by pretended communica- 
tions with Heaven. 

TTxor, an early Northern monarch (of whom an ancient statue or idol is 
preserved in the cathedral of Upsal), was styled the offspring of Odin ; in the 
same manner as Romulus was called the son of Mars, and was also deified. 

From Odin (corruptly called Woden), Thor, and Fret/a (a female deity), 
were derived the ancient Northern names of three days in the week, intro- 
duced into England by the Saxons, before their conversion to Christianity ; 
viz., Wodensday, Thorsday, and Fryday. — Ed. 



HENGIST AND MEY. 

He bowed his head — slow dropped his spear 
The reins slipped through his hand; 

And, stained with blood — his stately corse 
Lay breathless on the strand. 

" O bear me off, (Sir Elmer cried) ; 

Before my painful sight 
The combat swims — yet Hengist's vest 

I claim as victor's right." 

Brave Hengist's fall the Saxons saw, 

And all in terror fled ; 
The bowmen to his castle gates 

The brave Sir Elmer led. 

" O, wash my wounds, my sister dear ; 

O, pull this Saxon dart, 
That, whizzing from young Hengist's arm, 

Has almost pierced my heart. 

" Yet in my hall his vest shall hang ; 

And Britons yet unborn, 
Shall with the trophies of to-day 

Their solemn feasts adorn." 

All trembling, Mey beheld the vest; 

" O, Merlin!" loud she cried; 
" Thy words are true — my slaughtered love 

Shall have a breathless bride ! 

" Oh ! Elmer, Elmer, boast no more 

That low my Hengist lies ! 
Oh ! Hengist, cruel was thine arm ! 

My brother bleeds and dies !" 

She spake, — the roses left her cheeks, 

And life's warm spirit fled : 
So, nipt by winter's withering blasts, 

The snow-drop bows its head ! 



269 



270 



HENGIST AND MEY. 

Yet parting life one struggle gave, — 

She lifts her languid eyes ; 
" Return, my Hengist ! oh, return, 

My slaughtered love ! " she cries. 

" Oh — -still he lives — he smiles again, 
With all his grace he moves : 

I come — I come, where bow nor spear 
Shall more disturb our loves !" 

She spake — she died ! The Saxon dart 
Was drawn from Elmer's side ; 

And thrice he called his sister Mey, 
And thrice he groaned, — and died! 

Where in the dale a moss-grown Cross 

O'ershades an aged thorn, 
Sir Elmer's and young Hengist's corse 

Were by the spearmen borne. 

And there, all clad in robes of white, 

With many a sigh and tear, 
The village maids to Hengist's grave 

Did Mey's fair body bear. 

And there, at dawn and fall of day, 
All from the neighbouring groves 

The turtles wail, in widowed notes, 
And sing their hapless loves. 



THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 



BY THOMAS WARTON. 



The fabled disappearance of King Arthur, has been before treated 
of; but the particular mention of his removal to a distant island, 
deserves a further elucidation. This happy spot was called the 
" Fortunate Island," and the " Island of Apples," and was governed 
by nine sisters, the chief of whom — Alorgen, or Morgana — was 
eminently skilled in medicine, mathematics, and magic. Taliessin 
gravely relates King Arthur's voyage to this island, after the ordi- 
nary method of human sailing, — "our pilot being Barinthus, to 
whom were well known the seas, and the stars of heaven." Morgen 
pronounced that the King might recover, if left for a considerable 
time to her care and medicaments, which, accordingly, is said to 
have been done. 

These were the Hesperides and " Happy Islands" of the ancients ; 
the receptacle, as was supposed, of happy spirits.* Tasso has placed 
in them his luxurious bower of the dissolute Armida. To descend, 
however, to sober fact — they are now known as the Canaries. — En. 



Stately the feast, and high the cheer, 
Girt with many an armed peer, 
And canopied with golden pall, 
Amid Cilgarran's Castle-hall, 

■ '•' The Happy Isles," " The Fortunate," so styled 
By the fond lyrists of the antique age. — Tasso. 



21 2 THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 

Sublime, in formidable state 
And warlike splendour, Henry * sate ; 
Prepared to stain the briny flood 
Of Shannon's lakes, with rebel blood. 

Illumining the vaulted roof, 

A thousand torches flamed aloof: 

From massy cups, with golden gleam, 

Sparkled the Metheglin's stream : f 

To grace the gorgeous festival, 

Along the lofty-windowed hall 

The storied tapestry was hung ; 

With minstrelsy the rafters rung, 

Of harps, that with reflected light 

From the proud gallery glittered bright ; 

While gifted bards, a rival throng, 

(From distant Mona, nurse of song ! 

From Teivi, fringed with umbrage brown ; 

From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown ; 

From many a shaggy precipice, 

That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss, 

And many a sunless solitude 

Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude), 

To crown the banquet's solemn close, 

Themes of British glory chose ; 

* Henry II. — A.D. 1171. On his expedition to suppress a rebellion raised 
by Roderick, King of Connaught, commonly called O'Conner Dun, — i. e., 
the Brown Monarch, — he is said to have been informed by a Welsh harper, 
in a song, of the real site of King Arthur's burial-place ; till then, generally 
unknown. After his return, on searching at Glastonbury Abbey, they 
actually found the royal remains. Cilgarran Castle, where the discovery is 
supposed to have been made, stands on a rock, above the river Teine, in 
Pembrokeshire, and was built about the beginning of the Eleventh century, 
by Roger de Montgomery, who led the van of the Norman army, at the 
battle of Hastings. — W. 

t Antiquaries mention, also, two other preparations of honey,— oxytnel and 
hydromel; the composition of both of which may, in some measure, be 
guessed at from their Greek derivations, ofv, vd&p, and pe\i. — Ed. 



THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 273 

And to the strings of various chime, 
Attempered thus the fabling rhyme : 

" O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared. 
High the screaming seamew soared ; 
On Tintaggel's * topmost tower, 
Darksome fell the sleety shower; 
Round the rough castle shrilly sung 
The whirling blast, and wildly flung 
On each tall rampart's thundering side, 
The surges of the trembling tide : 

" When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks, 

On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks : 

By Mordred's faithless guile decreed 

Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed ! 

Yet in vain a Panym foe, 

Arm'd with fate the mighty blow ; 

For when he fell, an elfin queen, 

All in secret, and unseen, 

O'er the fainting hero threw 

The mantle of ambrosial blue ; 

And bade her spirits bear him far, 

In Merlin's agate-axled car, 

To her green isle's enamell'd steep, 

Far in the navel of the deep. 

O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew, 

From flowers that in Arabia grew ; 

On a rich enchanted bed 

She pillowed his majestic head; 

O'er his brow with whispers bland, 

Thrice she waved an opiate wand ; 

* Tintagel, or Tintadgel Castle, where King Arthur is said to have been born, 
and to have chiefly resided. Some of its huge fragments still remain, on s 
rocky peninsular cape, of a prodigious declivity towards the sea, and almost 
inaccessible from the land side, on the northern coasts of Cornwall.— W. 
N 2 



274 



THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR, 

And to soft music's airy sound, 
Her magic curtains closed around. 
There, renewed the vital spring, 
Again he reigns a mighty King ! 
And many a fair and fragrant clime, 
Blooming in immortal prime, 
By gales of Eden ever fanned, 
Owns the monarch's high command : 
Thence to Britain shall return, 
(If right prophetic rolls I learn), 
Borne on Victory's spreading plume, 
His ancient sceptre to resume ; 
Once more, in old heroic pride, 
His barbed courser to bestride, 
His knightly table to restore, 
And brave the tournaments of yore!" 

They ceased — when on the tuneful stage 
Advanced a bard, of aspect sage ; 
His silver tresses thin besprent, 
To age a graceful reverence lent ! 
His beard, all white as spangles frore, 
That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar, 
Down to his harp descending flowed : 
With Time's faint rose his features glowed, 
His eyes diffused a softened fire, — 
And thus he waked the warbling wire : 

" Listen, Henry, to my rede ! 
Not from fairy realms I lead 
Bright-robed Tradition, to relate 
In forged colours Arthur's fate ; 
Though much of old romantic lore 
On the high theme I keep in store : 
But boastful Fiction should be dumb, 
Where Truth the strain might best become 



THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 275 

If thine ear may still be won 
With songs of Uther's glorious son, 
Henry, I a tale unfold, 
Never yet in rhyme enrolled, 
Nor sung nor harped in hall or bower ; 
Which in my youth's full early flower, 
A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line, 
Who spoke of kings from old Locrine, 
Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn, 
Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn, 
What time the glistening vapours fled 
From cloud-enveloped Clyder's * head ; 
And on its sides the torrents gray 
Shone to the morning's orient ray. 

rt When Arthur bowed his haughty crest, 

No princess, veiled in azure vest, 

Snatched him, by Merlin's potent spell, 

In groves of golden bliss to dwell ; 

Where, crowned with wreaths of Misletoe, 

Slaughtered kings in glory go : 

But when he fell, with winged speed, 

His champions, on a milk-white steed, 

From the battle's hurricane, 

Bore him to Joseph's towered Fane, f 

* Or Glyder, a mountain in Caernarvonshire. — W. 

t Glastonbury Abbey.*— " It was built or rebuilt by lna, King of the West 
Saxons, about the year 720: a very ancient church remaining, adjacent to 
the foundation, which was said to have been erected at the primary intro- 
duction of Christianity, and by the followers of Joseph of Arimathea. — 
This point, however, is very doubtful; although it is certain, from authorita- 
tive evidence, that Christianity had been introduced into Britain at the end 
of the first century. The original abbey estates were, in the year 1799, 
valued at 250,000Z. per annum. — See Warner's "Walks in the West," 
chap. 1 ; and for some authentic particulars, a pleasing romance, entitled 
" The Tor-Hill," by H. Smith.— Ed. 

* The Abbey Church was celebrated for possessing one of the first Organs 
seen in England. It was given by Archbishop Dunstan, A.D. 950. William 



276 THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 

In the fair vale of Avelon : 

There, with chanted orison, 

And the long blaze of tapers clear, 

The stoled fathers met the bier : 

Through the dim ailes, in order dread 

Of martial woe, the chief they led, 

And deep entombed in holy ground, 

Before the Altar's solemn bound. 

Around no dusky banners wave, 

No mouldering trophies mark the grave : 

Away the ruthless Dane has torn 

Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn ; 

And long o'er the neglected stone, 

Oblivion's vale its shade has thrown : 

The faded tomb, with honour due, 

'T is thine, O Henry ! to renew. 

Thither, when conquest has restored 

Yon recreant Isle, and sheathed the sword, — 

When peace with palm has crowned thy brows, — 

Haste thee to pay thy pilgrim vows. 

There, observant of my lore, 

The pavement's hallowed depth explore ; 

And thrice a fathom underneath 

Dive into the vaults of death. 

of Malmsbury, who wrote about 1140, describes it minutely, — mentioning 
pipes of brass, " ceneas fistulas," and also, that Dunstan's gift was comme- 
morated by a Latin distich, engraved on the organ-pipes. While on this 
head, it may not be inappropriate to relate the origin of one of the most 
noble of human inventions. There were Organs, so styled, two thousand 
years ago ; but these were instruments of very different and humble pro- 
perties, being portable, and probably not exceeding the classical number of 
seven pipes, with a small bellows attached, which was worked by one hand, 
whilst the other struck the notes ; thus they seem to have resembled one 
species of bagpipe. But that magnificent edifice of music, which we now 
call the organ, was invented in Arabia, in the Eighth century; and the first 
introduced into Europe, was sent as a present from Constantine V., sirnamed 
Copronymus, a Grecian Emperor, to King Pepin of France, A. D. 756. It 
was placed in the church of St. Corneille, at Compeigne, near one of the 
royal palaces.— Ed. 



THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 277 

There shall thine eye, with wild amaze, 
On his gigantic stature gaze ; 
There shalt thou find the monarch laid, 
All in warrior-weeds arrayed ; 
Wearing in death his helmet crown, 
And weapons, huge, of old renown. 
Martial prince ! 't is thine to save 
From dark oblivion, Arthur's grave. 
So may thy ships securely stem 
The Western Frith : thy diadem 
Shine victorious in the van, 
Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan : 
Thy Norman pikemen win their way 
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay; * 
And from the steeps of rough Kildare, 
Thy prancing hoof the falcon scare : 
So may thy bow's unerring yew 
Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue." f 

Amid the pealing symphony, 

The spiced goblets J mantled high ; 

* Dublin. Harald, Harsager, the "Fair-haired," King of Norway, is said, 
in the Life of Gryffudh ap Conan, Prince of North Wales, to have con- 
quered Ireland, and to have founded Dublin.— W. 

t Henry is supposed to have succeeded in this enterprise, chiefly by the 
use of the long bow, with which the Irish were entirely unacquainted. A 
nearly similar degree of superiority contributed materially to the triumphs 
of the English over the Scots. 

I Our ancestors, whose ideas of luxury were principally confined to the 
solid and the costly, were wont to imbibe divers and sundry mixed and 
compound potations, of which the principal were pigment (a word of very 
odd sound ! ) and hipocras, or ypocras ; the latter said to have been origi- 
nally invented by the great physician Hippocrates, and also to have received 
its name from the Greek, vtto and xepawi/jut, to mix ; was introduced into 
England about the end of the fourteenth century. It consisted of wine, 
highly medicated, and enriched with various spices and sugar (speciebus et 
augur). This expensive delicacy was sold as high as 18d. a quart, an enor- 
mous price, at a time when the best German and French wines were sold at 
3 d.— Ed. 



278 



THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. 

With passions new the song impressed 
The listening King's impatient breast. 
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes, 
He scorns awhile his hold emprise ; 
E'en now he seems, with eager pace, 
The consecrated Floor to trace, 
And ope from its tremendous gloom, 
The treasure of the wondrous Tomb : 
E'en now he burns in thought to rear, 
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear, 
Rough with the gore of Pictish Kings : 
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings, 
To poise the monarch's massy blade, 
Of magic-tempered metal made ; 
And drag to day the dinted shield, 
That felt the storm of Camlan's field ! 
O'er the sepulchre profound, 
E'en now with arching sculpture crowned, 
He plans the chantry's choral shrine, 
The daily dirge and rites divine. 



ATHELGIVA. 



" There remains a tradition," observes Mr. Watkins, the writer of 
the following legendary tale, " that the Abbey of Whitby, on the 
North coast of Yorkshire, was despoiled during the depredations of 
the Danes, under the command of Ingua and Hubba, who brought 
with them the standard on which was embroidered a golden Raven 
(the work of their sisters), and which was preserved as the Palladium 
of their security. Edelsteda, who is mentioned in the first stanza, 
is represented to have been the daughter of Oswin, King of 
Northumberland, and resided in the Abbey of Whitby. This 
sanctuary was founded by St. Hilda, sister of King Edwin, who 
died in 680." — Bede, and Sax. Chron. 



" Here may'st thou rest, my sister dear ! 

Securely here abide : 
Where royal Edelsteda lived, 

Where pious Hilda died. 

" Here peace and quiet ever dwell ! 

Here dread no dire alarms : 
Nor here is heard the trumpet's sound, 

Nor here the din of arms ! " — 

With voice composed and look serene, 
Whilst soft her hand he pressed, 

The maid, who trembled on his arm, 
Young Edwy thus addressed. 



280 



ATHELGIVA. 

Blue gleamed the steel in Edwy's hand, 

The warrior's vest he bore ; 
For now the Danes, by Hubba led, 

Had ravaged half the shore. 

His summons, at the abbey-gate, 

The ready porter hears : 
And soon, in veil and holy garb, 

The abbess kind appears. 

" O, take this virgin to thy care ; 

Good angels be your guard ! 
And may the saints in Heaven above, 

The pious care reward ! — 

" Know then, by fierce barbarian bands, 

We, driven from our home, 
Through three long days and nights forlorn, 

The dreary waste did roam. 

" But, I go — these towers to save ! 

Beneath the evening shade, 
I haste to seek Earl Osrick's power, 

And call Lord Redwald's aid." 

He said — and turned his ready foot : 

The abbess nought replies ; 
But with a look that spoke her grief, 

To heaven upcast her eyes. 

Now, turning to the stranger dame, 

" O, welcome to this place ! 
For never Whitby's holy fane 

Did fairer maiden grace." 

And true she said — for, on her cheek 
Was seen young beauty's bloom ; 

Though grief, with slow and wasting stealth, 
Did then her prime consume. 



ATHELGIVA. 

Her shape was all that thought can form 

Of elegance and grace, 
While heaven the beauties of her mind 

Reflected in her face. 

" My daughter, lay aside thy fears !" 

Again the abbess cried : 
" The Danish spoiler comes not here !" 

Again the virgin sighed. 

The abbess saw, — the abbess knew, 
'T was love that shook her breast ; 

And thus, in accent soft and mild, 
The mournful fair addrest. 

" My daughter dear ! as to thy friend, 

Be all thy cares confest : 
I see 't is love disturbs thy mind, 

And wish to give thee rest. 

" Yet hark ! — I hear the vesper-bell ! 

It summons us to prayer; 
Which duty done, with needful food 

Thy wasted strength repair." 

But now the sympathising Muse, 

Of Edwy's hap shall tell ; 
And what, amidst his nightly walk, 

That gallant youth befell. — 

Fast journeying by the bank of Esk, 

He took his lonely way ; 
And now through showers of driving rain, 

His erring footsteps stray. 

At length from far, a glimmering light, 

Trembling among the trees, 
And entering soon a moss-built hut, 

A holy man he sees. — 



281 



282 



ATHELGIVA. 

" O father ! deign a luckless youth 

This night with thee to shield ; 
I am no robber, though my arm 

This deadly weapon wield." 

" I fear no robber, stranger ! here, 

For I have nought to lose ; 
And thou may'st safely during night 

In this poor cell repose : 

" And thou art welcome to my hut/' 

The holy man he cried ; 
" Still welcome here, is he whom fate 

Has left without a guide. 

" Whence, and what art thou, gentle youth ?" 

The noble Edwy said, 
" I go to rouse Earl Osrick's power, 

And seek Lord Redwald's aid. 

" My father is a wealthy Lord, 

Who now with Alfred stays ; 
And. me he left to guard his seat, 

Whilst he his duty pays. 

" But, vain the trust ! — in dead of night 

The devastator came ; 
And o'er each neighbouring castle threw 

War's all-destructive flame, 

" To shun its rage, at early dawn 

I with my sister fled ; 
And Whitby Abbey now affords 

A shelter to her head : 

" Whilst I, to hasten promised aids, 
Range wildly through the night, 

And with impatient heart expect 
The morning's friendly light." 



ATHELGIVA. 

So Edwy spake ; and wondering, gazed 

Upon his hermit host : 
For in his form beam'd manly grace, 

Unchilled by age's frost ! 

The hermit sighing, thus he said, 
" Know — there was once a day, 

This tale of thine would fire my heart, 
And bid me join thy way. 

" But luckless love dejects my soul, 

And casts my spirits down ; 
Thou see'st the wretch of woman's pride, 

Of follies not my own ! 

" I once, amid my Sovereign's train, 
Ranked a distinguished youth ; 

But blighted is my former fame, 
By sorrow's cankering tooth. 

" When Ethelred the crown did hold, 

I to this district came, 
And then a fair and matchless maid 

First woke in me a flame. 

" Her father was a noble Lord, 

Of an illustrious race, 
Who joined to rustic honesty 

The court's transcendent grace. 

" 'Twas then I told my artless tale, 

By love alone inspired ; 
For never was my manly speech 

In flattering guise attired. 

" At first she heard, or seemed to hear, 

The tender voice of love ; 
But soon — the ficklest of her sex, 

Did she deceitful prove ! 



283 



284 



ATHELGIVA. 

" She drove me, scornful, from her sight 

Rejected and disdained : 
In vain did words for pity plead ! 

In vain my looks complained ! 

" How could the breast that pity filled, 

Ever relentless be ! 
How could the face that smiled on all, 

Have ever frowns for me ! 

" Since that drear hour, within this cell 

I live, recluse from man ; 
And twice ten months have passed, since I 

The hermit's life began." 

" O, stain to honour!" Edwy cried • 

" O, foul disgrace to arms ! 
What, — when thy country claims thy aid, 

And shakes with war's alarms — 

" Canst thou, inglorious ! here remain, 

And strive thyself to hide ; 
Assume the monkish coward life, 

All for a woman's pride?" 

With louder voice, and warmer look, 

His hermit host rejoined — 
" Think'st thou, vain youth ! the chains of fear 

Could here a warrior bind 1 

" Know, then, thou see'st Hermanrick here ! 

Well versed in war's alarms ; 
A name not once unknown to fame, 

Nor unrenowned in arms. 

" O, Athelgiva ! — yet too dear ! — 

Did I thy danger know, 
Yet would I fly to thy relief, 

And crush the invading foe." 



ATHELGIVA. 

With flustered cheek, young Edwy turned 

At Athelgiva's name ; 
And, " gracious powers ! it must be he !" 

He cried ; " it is the same ! 

" I know mil well, I have not now 

More of thy tale to learn ; 
'T was heard this morn, ere from the wave 

You could the sun discern. 

" My sister loves thee, gallant youth ! 

By all the saints on high ! 
She wept last night, when thy hard fate 

She told, with many a sigh. 

" Forgive her, then, and in her cause, 
Thy limbs with steel enfold ! — 

Was it not Ardolph's daughter, say, 
W r ho late thy heart did hold? " 

" It was — it was !" Hermanrick cried : 
" I heard her brother's name ; 

T is said, he was a gallant youth 
Who fought abroad for fame." 

Then Edwy sprang to his embrace, 
And clasped him to his breast ; 

" And thou shalt be my brother too !" 
He said — and looked the rest. 

" But now let honour fill thy mind, 
Be love's high laws obeyed; — 

T is Athelgiva claims thy sword, 
'T is she demands thy aid ! 

" She, with impatient anxious heart, 

Expects my quick return ; 
And, till again she sees me safe, 

The hapless maid will mourn. 



285 



286 



ATHELGIVA. 

Then let us fly, to seek these chiefs, 

Who promised aid to send : 
Earl Osrick was my father's guest, 

Lord Redwald is myTriend." 

Hermanrick then— "First let us go 

To cheer yon drooping maid : 
Again I '11 wear my cankered arms, 

Again I '11 draw my blade ! " 

Then, from a corner of the cell, 

His clashing arms appear ; 
But, as he marked their growing rust, 

The warrior dropped a tear. 

Right forth they speed : Hermanrick knew 

Each pathway of the wood ; 
And safe before the Abbey gate, 

At dawn of day they stood. 

Now sleep the wearied maiden's eyes 

In kindness fast had sealed, 
When at the gate the wandering knights 

Returning day revealed. 

" Quick ! call the abbess," Edwy cried, 

To him who kept the door ; 
Who watched and prayed the livelong night, 

A pious priest, and poor. 

The abbess came, with instant haste 

The alarming bell was rung ; 
And from their matted homely beds, 

The saintlike virgins sprung. 

Fair Athelgiva first, the dame, 

Soft speaking, thus addrest, — 
"'My daughter, an important call 

Commands me break thy rest : 



ATHELGIVA. 

" Thy brother, at the Abbey gate, 
Appears with features glad ; 

And with him comes a stranger knight, 
In war-worn armour clad." 

With faltering step and bloodless cheek, 

Young Athelgiva went : 
Confusion, shame, surprise, and joy, 

At once her bosom rent — 

As, in the stranger knight she saw 
Hermanrick's much-loved face : 

Whilst he, by generous love impelled, 
Rushed to her fond embrace. 

Then Edwy, while entranced in bliss 

The happy pair remained, 
Recounted o'er the tale how he 

Hermanrick — lost — regained. 

But soon (alas ! too soon) was heard, 
To damp their new-formed joys, 

The groan of death, the shout of war, 
And battle's mingled noise. 

Lo ! up the hill, with breathless haste, 
The panting cornier came : — 

" Prepare," he cried, " for dire alarms, 
And shim approaching flame ! 

** Fierce Hubba, landed on the beach, 

Now drives our little band, 
Who, far too few to stay his course, 

Fly o'er the crimsoned sand." 

What anguish filled the maiden's breast, 

What rage her lover knew, 
When glancing down the steepy hill, 

They saw the tidings true ! 



287 



288 



ATHELGIVA. 

Each warlike youth now grasped his spear : 

The trembling virgin cried — 
" Oh ! where is now Earl Osrick's power? 

And where Lord Redwald's aid? " 

" Alas ! alas !" the abbess then, — 

" Far as my sight is borne, 
I neither see the ruddy Cross, 

Nor hear Earl Osrick's horn !" 

Stern Hubba now to direful deeds 

Impelled his savage crew ; 
And o'er the blood-empurpled strand 

The golden Raven flew. 

" Behold," he calls, and waves his lance, 
" Where yon proud turrets rise ! — 

Of those who prove war's glorious toil, 
Let beauty be the prize. 

" There gold and beauty both are found ! 

Then follow where I lead ; 
And quickly find you have not fought 

For honour's empty mead" — 

He said ; and pressed to gain the hill, 

His shouting train pursue : 
And, fired by hopes of brutal joys, 

Behold the prize in view. 

Young Edwy marked their near approach, 
And rushed t' oppose their way ; 

Nor did, with equal ardour fired, 
Behind Hermanrick stay. 

Like mountain boars, the brother-chiefs 
On Denmark's warriors flew ! 

And those who held the foremost ranks, 
Their fury overthrew. 



ATHELGIVA. 

Soon, pierced by Edwy's fatal lance, 

Lay valiant Turkil here ; 
There, Hardikanute bit the dust 

Beneath Hermanrick's spear. 

But vain are courage, strength and skill, 

When two oppose an host ! 
A dart, with sure and deadly aim, 

At Edwy — Hubba tost ; 

His sister, who o'erpowered with grief, 

Had fainted on the floor, 
Recovered by the matron's care, 

Now sought the Abbey door. 

When on the fatal carnaged spot 

She cast her tearful eyes, 
" O, blessed Mary!" cried the maid, 

" My brother — bleeds, and dies !" 

Then forth she ran, and gained the pass, 
Where, pressed by thronging foes, 

Hermanrick stood! — the shades of death 
Her brother's eyelids close ! 

The furious Dane no pity knew, 

Nor staid his vengeful arm ; 
For nought availed that heavenly face, 

Which might a tiger charm ! 

Full on the unguarded chief he rushed, 

And bore him to the ground ! 
The helpless maiden's shrieks of woe 

In war's loud shout are drown'd. 

She saw Hermanrick's quivering lip ! 

She marked his rolling eye ! 
She fainted — fell, — before her sight 

Death's visions dimly fly. 
o 



289 



290 



ATHELGIVA. 

And, " O thou dear and much-loved youth ! 

The ' expiring virgin cried, 
" Howe'er in life I wronged thy truth, 

Yet true, with thee, I died!" 

No more she spake. — E'en Hubba felt 

The force of love sincere ; 
Then first his breast confessed a sigh, 

Then first his cheek a tear. 

And now, " My friends ! the rage of war,'" 

He call'd, " awhile forbear ; 
And, to their mourning kindred, straight 

These breathless bodies bear. 

" Or, fear the wrath of Powers Divine!" 

He could no farther say ; 
But quickly, with disordered march, 

Bent to his ships his way. 

And now was heard Earl Osrick's horn, 
Shrill sounding through the dale ; 

And now was seen Lord Redwald's cross, 
Red waving to the gale. 

His tardy aid Earl Osrick brought 

Too late, indeed, to save ! 
For, far beyond the' avenging sword, 

The Dane now rode the wave. 

Grief struck this warrior's heart, to see 

In dust young Edwy's head ! 
And stretched by brave Hermanrick's side, 

Fair Athelgiva dead ! 

Now, on the holy cross, he swore 

A brave revenge to take 
On Denmark's proud and bloody sons ! — 

For Athelgiva's sake. 



ATHELGIVA. 

The vow, in Kenworth's glorious field, 

This gallant Earl did pay ; 
When Alfred's better star prevailed, 

And England had her day : 

That day — the Dane Ml dearly paid 

The price of lovers' blood ! 
That day — in Hubba's cloven helm 

The Saxon jav'lin stood. 

The bodies of the hapless three, 

A single grave contains ; 
And in the choir, with dirges due, 

Repose their cold remains. 

Lord Ardolph, on his children's tomb, 
Inscribed 'the' applauding verse; 

And long the monks, in Gothic rhymes, 
Their story did rehearse. 

And often, pointing to the skies, 
The cloistered maids would cry — 

" To those bright realms, in bloom of youth 
Did Athelgivafly!" 

Evans. 



291 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH 

& $flrtl)umij*rfcm*f 3SaTlatr. 



BY BISHOP PERCY. 



Dark was the night, and wild the storm, 

And loud the torrent's roar ; 
And loud the sea was heard to dash 

Against the distant shore. 

Musing on man's weak hapless state, 

The lonely hermit lay ; 
When, lo ! he heard a female voice 

Lament in sore dismay. 

With hospitable haste he rose, 
And waked his sleeping fire ; 

And snatching up a lighted brand, 
Forth hied the reverend sire. 

All sad beneath a neighbouring tree, 
A beauteous maid he found ; 

Who beat her breast, and with her tears 
Bedewed the mossy ground. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

•' O weep not, lady ! weep not so ; 

Nor let vain fears alarm ; 
My little cell shall shelter thee, 

And keep thee safe from harm." 

" It is not for myself I weep, 

Nor for myself I fear ; 
But for my dear and only friend, 

Who lately left me here : 

" And while some sheltering bower he sought 

Within this lonely wood, 
Ah ! sore I fear his wandering feet 

Have slipped in yonder flood." 

" Oh ! trust in Heaven (the Hermit s*aid), 

And to my cell repair ; 
Doubt not but I shall find thy friend. 

And ease thee of thy care," 

Then climbing up his rocky stairs, 

He scales the cliff so high ; 
And calls aloud, and waves his light, 

To guide the stranger's eye. 

Among the thickets long he winds, 

With careful steps and slow ; 
At length a voice returned his call, 

Quick answering from below : 

" O tell me, father, tell me true, 

If you have chanced to see 
A gentle maid, I lately left 

Beneath some neighbouring tree : 

" But I have either lost the place, 

Or she hath gone astray ; 
And much I fear this fatal stream 

Hath snatched her hence away." 



293 



294 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

" Praise heaven, my son ! (the Hermit said), 

" The lady's safe and well : " 
And soon he joined the wandering youth, 

And brought him to his cell. 

Then well was seen these gentle friends, 

They loved each other dear : 
The youth he pressed her to his heart ; 

The maid let fall a tear. 

Ah ! seldom had their host, I ween, 

Beheld so sweet a pair : — 
The youth was tall, with manly bloom ; — 

She slender, soft, and fair. 

The youth was clad in forest green, 

With bugle-horn so bright ; — 
She in a silken robe and scarf, 

Snatched up in hasty flight. 

" Sit down, my children, (says the Sage) ; 

" Sweet rest your limbs require :" 
Then heaps fresh fuel on the hearth, 

And mends his little fire. 

" Partake (he said), my simple store, 
Dried fruits, and milk, and curds ; " 

And spreading all upon the board, 
Invites with kindly words. 

" Thanks, father, for thy bounteous fare,'' 

The youthful couple say : 
Then freely ate, and made good cheer, 

And talked their cares away. 

" Now say, my children (for perchance, 

My counsel may avail) ; 
What strange adventure brought you here, 

Within this lonely dale?" 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

" First tell me, father ! " said the youth, 
" (Nor blame my eager tongue), 

" What town is near? — what lands are these? 
And to what lord belong ? " 

" Alas ! my son (the Hermit said), 

" Why do I live to say, 
The rightful lord of these domains 

Is banished far away ? 

" Ten winters now have shed their snows 

On this my lowly hall, 
Since valiant Hotspur (so the North 

Our youthful lord did call). 

" Against Fourth Henry Bolingbroke 

Led up his northern powers, 
And, stoutly fighting, lost his life 

Near proud Salopia's towers. 

" One son he left, a lovely boy, 

His country's hope and heir ; 
And, oh! to save him from his foes 

It was his grandsire's care. 

" In Scotland safe, he placed the child, 

Beyond the reach of strife, 
Nor long before the brave old Earl, 

At Bramham lost his life. 

" And now the Percy name, so long 

Our northern pride and boast, 
Lies hid, alas ! beneath a cloud, — 

Their honours reft and lost. 

" No chieftain of that noble house 

Now leads our youth to arms ; 
The bordering Scots despoil our fields, 

And ravage all our farms. 



295 



296 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

" Their halls and castles, once so fair, 

Now moulder in decay ; 
Proud strangers now usurp their lands, 

And bear their wealth away. 

" Nor far from hence, where yon full stream 

Runs winding down the lea, 
Fair Warkworth lifts her lofty towers, 

And overlooks the sea. 

" Those towers, alas ! now lie forlorn, 
With noisome weeds o'erspread ; 

Where feasted lords and courtly dames, 
And where the poor were fed. 

" Meantime far off, 'mid Scottish hills, 

The Percy lives unknown : 
On strangers' bounty he depends, 

And may not claim his own. 

" Oh, might I with these aged eyes 

But live to see him here ; 
Then should my soul depart in bliss ! " — 

He said, and dropped a tear. 

" And is the Percy still so loved 

Of all his friends and thee ? 
Then, bless me, — father (said the youth), 

" For I, thy guest, am he!" 

Silent he gazed, then turned aside 

To wipe the tears he shed ; 
And lifting up his hands and eyes, 

Poured blessings on his head. 

" Welcome, our dear and much-loved lord, 
Thy country's hope and care ; — 

But who may this young lady be, 
That is so wondrous fair?" 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 



297 



" Now, father ! listen to my tale, 

And thou shalt know the truth ; 
And let thy sage advice direct 

My inexperienced youth. — 

" In Scotland I've been nobly bred, 

Beneath the Regent's hand,* 
In feats of arms, and every lore, 

To fit me for command. 

" With fond impatience long I burned 

My native land to see ; 
At length I won my guardian friend. 

To yield that boon to me. 

:t Then up and down, in hunter's garb. 

I wandered as in chase, 
Till in the noble Neville's house f 

I gained a hunter's place. 

" Sometime with him I lived unknown, 

Till I 'd the hap so rare, 
To please this young and gentle dame, 

That Baron's daughter fair." — 

" Now, Percy (said the blushing maid), 

The truth I must reveal ; 
Souls great and generous, like to thine, 

Their noble deeds conceal. 

" It happened on a summer's day, 

Led by the fragrant breeze, 
I wandered forth to take the air 

Among the green-wood trees : 

* Robert Stuart, Duke of Albany.— P. 

t Ralph Neville, first Earl of Westmorland, whose principal residence was 
at Raby Castle, in the bishopric of Durham.— P. 

o2 



298 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH, 



" Sudden, a band of rugged Scots, 

That near in ambush lay, 
Moss-troopers from the border-side, 

There seized me for their prey. 

" My shrieks had all been spent in vain, 

But Heaven, that saw my grief, 
Brought this brave, youth within my call, 

Who flew to my relief. 

" With nothing but his hunting spear, 

And dagger in his hand, 
He sprung like lightning on my foes, 

Aud caused them soon to stand. 

" He fought, till more assistance came ; 

The Scots were overthrown ; — 
Thus freed me, captive, from their bands, 

To make me more his own." 

" O happy day ! " the youth replied, — 

" Blest were the wounds I bear! 
From that fond hour she deigned to smile, 

And listen to my prayer. 

" And when she knew my name and birth, 

She vowed to be my bride ; 
But oh! we feared (alas the while !) 

Her princely mother's pride. 

" Sister of haughty Bolingbroke,* 

Our house's ancient foe ; 
To me I thought a banished wight 

Could ne'er such favour shew. 

" Despairing then to gain consent; 
At length to fly with me 

* Joan, Countess of Westmorland, mother of the young lady, was daughtei 
of John of Gaunt, and half-sister of King Henry IV.— P. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 299 

I won this lovely timorous maid, — 
To Scotland bound are we. 

" This evening, as the night drew on, 

Fearing we were pursued, 
We turned adown the right-hand path, 

And gained this lonely wood. 

" Then ' lighting from our weary steeds 

To shun the pelting shower, 
We met thy kind conducting hand, 

And reached this friendly bower." 

" Now rest ye both (the Hermit said), 

Awhile your cares forego , 
Nor, Lady, scorn my humble bed ; — 

We '11 pass the night below." * 



* The Hermitage of Warkworth is situated in a cliff near the river 
Coquet, called, by our old Latin chroniclers, Coqucda, which here flows 
through a small romantic valley. It is distant from the Castle of Warkworth 
about one mile. From the style of its architecture, it is supposed to have 
been erected, or, more properly speaking, excavated, towards the middle or" 
the fourteenth century ; and its founder is ascertained to have been one of 
the Bertram family. These had very considerable possessions in this county, 
being Barons of Mitford and of Bothal Castle, which are situated in the vale 
of Wansbeck, about ten miles from Warkworth : the last was partly rebuilt 
in the year 1395. They also founded Brenkburn Priory and Brenkshaugh 
Chapel, in the vale near Warkworth. The traditions of the vicinity agree 
with the civcumstancesrecorded in the ballad. The hermit's residence was 
in a small, separate building, by the side of the cliff, and consisted of two 
apartments, of which the upper was the bed-chamber. This building is now 
in ruins; but the small and beautiful chapel, cut in the solid rock, with its 
anti-chapel and sacristy, or vestry, remain perfectly entire, and exhibit 
every part of the original architecture. The interior objects, as described in 
the ballad, are also still beheld, uninjured, by the curious traveller, to whose 
mind, in addition to the reverence due to antiquity and piety, they will re- 
call the interesting and affecting story connected with them, by Tit. Percy. — 
Ed. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 



PART II. 



Lovely smiled the blushing morn, 

And every storm was fled ; 
But lovelier far, with sweeter smile, 

Fair Eleanor left her bed. 

She found her Henry all alone, 

And cheered him with her sight ; — 

The youth consulting with his friend 
Had watched the livelong night. 

What sweet surprise o'erpowered her breast,- 

Her cheek what blushes dyed, 
When fondly he besought her there 

To yield to be his bride ! — 

" Within this lonely hermitage 

There is a chapel meet : 
Then grant, dear maid, my fond request, 

And make my bliss complete." 

" O Henry ! when thou deignest to sue, 

Can I thy suit withstand ? 
When thou, loved youth, hast won my heart, 

Can I refuse my hand ? 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 



301 



" For thee, I left a father's smiles, 

And mother's tender care ; 
And, whether weal or woe betide, 

Thy lot I mean to share.'' 

" And wilt thou, then, O generous maid •' 

Such matchless favour show, 
To share with me, a banished wight, 

My peril, pain, or woe ? 

" Now heaven, I trust, hath joys in store 

To crown thy constant breast ; 
For know, fond hope assures my heart, 

That we shall soon be blest. 

" Not far from hence stands Coquet Isle, 

Surrounded by the sea ; 
There dwells a holy friar, well-known 

To all thy friends and thee.* 

" 'T is Father Bernard, — so revered 

For every worthy deed ; 
To Raby Castle he shall go, 

And for us kindly plead. 

" To fetch this good and holy man 

Our revered host is gone ; 
And soon, I trust, his pious hands 

Will join us both in one." 

Thus they in sweet and tender talk 

The lingering hours beguile ; 
At length they see the hoary sage 

Come from the neighbouring isle. 

* In the little island of Coquet, near Warkworth, are still seen the ruins 
of a cell, which belonged to the Benedictine Monks of Tinemouth Abbey. 
Many interesting particulars of the scenery in this part of Northumberland, 
will be found in a novel by Miss Porter, written with her accustomed 
purity of feeling and beauty of delineation, called, " The Pastor'.* Fire-side" 
—Ed. 



302 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

With pious joy and wonder mixed 

He greets the noble pair, 
And glad consents to join their hands, 

With many a fervent prayer. 

Then straight to Raby's distant walls 

He kindly wends his way ; 
Meantime in love and dalliance sweet 

They spend the livelong day. 

And now, attended by their host, 

The Hermitage they viewed, 
Deep-hewn within a craggy cliff, 

And overhung with wood. 

And near a flight of shapely steps, 

All cut with nicest skill, 
And piercing through a stony arch, 

Ran winding up the hill. 

There decked with many a flower and herb, 

His little garden stands ; 
With fruitful trees in shady rows, 

All planted by his hands. 

There, scooped within the solid rock, 

Three sacred vaults he shows ; 
The chief a Chapel, neatly arched, 

On branching columns rose. 

Each proper ornament was there, 

That should a chapel grace ; 
The lattice for confession framed, 

And holy water vase. 

O'er either door a sacred text, 

Invites to godly fear ; 
And in a little 'scutcheon hung 

The cross, and crown, and spear. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

Up to the altar's ample breadth, 

Two easy steps ascend; 
And near, a glimmering solemn light 

Two well-wrought windows lend. 

Beside the altar rose a tomb, 

All in the living stone ; 
On which a young and beauteous maid 

In goodly sculpture shone. 

A kneeling angel fairly carved, 
Leaned hovering o'er her breast ; 

A weeping warrior at her feet ; 
And near to these, her crest* 

The cliff, the vault — but chief the tomb, 

Attract the wondering pair : 
Eager they ask, What hapless dame 

Lies sculptured here so fair ? 

The Hermit sighed, the Hermit wept, 
For sorrow scarce could speak ; 

At length he wiped the trickling tears 
That all bedewed his cheek. 

" Alas ! my children, human life 

Is but a vale of woe ! 
And very mournful is the tale 

Which ye so fain would know.'' 



303 



* This is a Bull's Head, the crest of the Widdrington family.— P. 



THE HERMIT'S TALE. 



Young Lord, thy Grandsire had a friend, 

In days of youthful fame ; 
Yon distant hills were his domains, 

Sir Bertram was his name. 

Where'er the noble Percy fought 

His friend was at his side ; 
And many a skirmish with the Scots 

Their early valour tried. 

Young Bertram loved a beauteous maid, 

As fair, as fair might be ; 
The dew-drop on the lily's cheek 

Was not so fair as she ! 

Fair Widdrington the maiden's name, 

Yon towers her dwelling place ; * 
Her sire an old Northumbrian chief, 

Devoted to thy race. 

Many a lord, and many a knight 

To this fair damsel came ; 
But Bertram was her only choice, — 

For him she felt a flame. 

Lord Percy pleaded for his friend, 
Her father soon consents ; 

* Widdrington Castle, about five miles south of Warkworth.— P. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

None but the beauteous maid herself 
His -wishes now prevents. 

But she, with studied fond delays, 

Defers the blissful hour ; 
And loves to try his constancy, 

And prove her maiden power. 

" That heart (she said), is lightly prized, 

Which is too lightly won ; 
And long shall rue that easy maid, 

Who yields her love too soon." 

Lord Percy made a solemn feast, 

In Alnwick's princely hall ; 
And there came lords, and there came knights. 

His chiefs and barons all. 

With wassal, mirth, and revelry, 

The castle rang around ; 
Lord Percy called for song and harp, 

And pipes of martial sound. 

The minstrels of thy noble house, 

All clad in robes of blue, 
With silver crescents on their arms, 

Attend in order due. 

The great achievements of thy race 
They sung : their high command : 

" How valiant Mainfred o'er the seas 
First led his northern 'band. 

" Brave Galfrid next, to Normandy, 

With venturous Rollo came ; 
And, from his Norman castles won, 

Assumed the Percy name.' 

' ' They sung, how ' in the Conqueror's fleet, 
Lord William shipped his powers, 



305 



306 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

And gained a fair young Saxon bride, 
With all her lands and towers. * 

" Then journeying to the Holy Land, 

There bravely fought and died : 
But first the silver crescent won — 

Some Paynim Soldan's pride. 

They sung, '' how Agnes, beauteous heir, 

The Queen's own brother wed : 
Lord Joscelyn, sprung from Charlemagne, 

In princely Brabant bred. 

" How he the Percy name revived ; 

And how his noble line, 
Still foremost in their country's cause, 

With godlike ardour shine." 

With loud acclaims, the listening crowd 

Applaud the masters' song: 
And deeds of arms and war became 

The theme of every tongue. 

Now high heroic acts they tell, 

Their perils past recall : 
When, lo ! a Damsel young and fair, 

Stepped forward through the hall. 

She' Bertram courteously addressed ; 

And kneeling on her knee : — ■ 
" Sir knight, the lady of thy love 

Hath sent this gift to thee." 

* William de Percy (fifth in descent from Galfrid, or Geffrey de Percy, 
son of Mainfred), assisted in the conque st of England, and had given him 
the large possessions in Yorkshire, of Emma de Porte (so the Norman 
writers name her), whose father, a great Saxon lord, had been slain fighting 
along with Harold. This young lady, William, from a principle of honour 
and generosity, married ; for, having had all her lands bestowed upon him 
by the Conqueror, "he (to use the words of the old Whitby Chronicle) 
wedded hyr that was very heire to them, in discharging of his conscience." 
He died in Asia, in the first Crusade.— Dr. Percy. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

Then forth she drew a glittering helm, 

Well-plait with many a fold ; 
The casque was wrought of tempered steel, 

The crest of burnished gold. 

" Sir knight, thy lady sends thee this, 

And yields to be thy bride, 
When thou hast proved this maiden gift, 

Where sharpest blows are tried." 

Young Bertram took the shining helm, 
And thrice he kissed the same : 

" Trust me, I '11 prove this precious casque 
With deeds of noblest fame." 

Lord Percy, and his barons bold, 

Then fix upon a day 
To scour the marches, late oppressed, 

And Scottish wrongs repay. 

The knights assembled on the hills, — 

A thousand horse and more ; 
Brave Widdrington, though sunk in years, 

The Percy standard bore. 

Tweed's limpid current soon they pass, 
And range the Borders round : 

Down the green slopes of Teviotdale 
Their bugle-horns resound. 

As when a lion in his den 

Hath heard the huriters' cries, 

And rushes forth to meet his foes, 
So did the Douglas rise. 

Attendant on their chief's command, 

A thousand warriors wait : 
And now the fatal hour drew on, 

Of cruel, keen debate. 



307 



308 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

A chosen troop of Scottish youths 

Advance before the rest ; 
Lord Percy marked their gallant mein, 

And thus his friend addressed : 

" Now, Bertram, prove thy lady's helm, — 

Attack yon forward band ; 
Dead or alive I '11 rescue thee, 

Or perish by their hand." 

Young Bertram bowed, with glad assent, 
And spurred his eager steed ; 

And, calling on his lady's name, 
Rushed forth with whirlwind speed. 

As when a grove of sapling oaks 

The livid lightning rends ; 
So fiercely 'mid opposing ranks 

Sir Bertram's sword descends. 

This way and that he drives the steel, 

And keenly pierces through ; 
And many a tall and comely knight 

With furious force he slew. 

Now closing fast on every side, 
They hem Sir Bertram round : 

But, dauntless, he repels their rage, 
And deals forth many a wound. 

The vigour of his single arm 

Had well nigh won the field, 
When ponderous fell a Scottish axe, 

And clave his lifted shield. 

Another blow his temples took, 
And reft his helm in twain ; |^ 

That beauteous helm, his lady's gift ! — 
His blood bedewed the plain. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 309 

Lord Percy saw his champion fall 

Amid the' unequal fight ; 
" And now, my noble friends (he said), 

Let 's save this gallant knight." 

Then rushing in, with stretch'd-out shield, 

He o'er the warrior hung ; 
As some fierce eagle spreads her wing, 

To guard her callow young. 

Three times they strove to seize their prey, 

Three times they quick retire ; — 
What force could stand his furious strokes, ' 

Or meet his martial fire ? 

Now gathering round on every part, 

The battle raged amain ; 
And many a Lady wept her Lord, 

That hour untimely slain. 

Percy and Douglas, great in arms, 

There all their courage showed ; 
And all the field was strewed with dead, 

And all with crimson flowed. 

At length the glory of the day 

The Scots reluctant yield, 
And, after wondrous valour shown, 

They slowly quit the field. 

All pale, extended on their shields, 

And weltering in his gore, 
Lord Percy's knights their bleeding friend 

To Wark's * fair Castle bore. 

" Well hast thou earned my daughter's love ; 
(Her father kindly said), 

• Wark Castle, a fortress belonging to the English, and of great note in 
ancient times, stood on the southern bank of the river Tweed, a little to the 
east of Teviotdale, and not far from Kelso. It is now entirely destroyed. — P. 



310 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

And she herself shall dress thy wounds, 
And tend thee in thy bed." 

A message went, no daughter came, 

Fair Isabel ne'er appears ; 
" Beshrew me (said the aged chief), 

Young maidens have their fears. 

" Cheer up, my son, thou shalt her see, 

So soon as thou canst ride ; 
And she shall nurse thee in her bower, 

And she shall be thy bride." 

Sir Bertram, at her name revived, 
He blessed the soothing sound ; 

Fond hope supplied the nurse's care, 
And healed his ghastly wound. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH 



PART III. 



One early morn, while dewy drops 
Hung trembling on the tree, 

Sir Bertram from his sick-bed rose, 
His bride he would go see. 

A brothe r he had, in prime of youth, 

Of courage firm and keen ; 
And he would tend him on the way, 

Because his wounds were green. 

All day, o'er moss and moor they rode, 

By many a lonely tower ; 
And 't was the dew-fall of the night 

Ere they drew near her bower. 

Most drear and dark the Castle seemed, 
That wont to shine so bright : 

And long and loud Sir Bertram called, 
Ere he beheld a light. 

At length her aged nurse arose, 
With voice so shrill and clear : — 

" What wight is this, that calls so loud, 
And knocks so boldly here ?" 



312 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

" 'T is Bertram calls, thy Lady's love, 

Come from his bed of care : 
All day I 've ridden o'er moor and moss, 

To see thy Lady fair." 

" Now out, alas ! (she loudly shrieked), 

Alas ! how may this be ? 
For six long days are gone and past, 

Since she set out to thee." 

Sad terror seized Sir Bertram's heart, 

And oft he deeply sighed ; 
When now the drawbridge was let down, 

And gates set open wide. 

" Six days, young knight, are past and gone, 

Since she set out to thee ; 
And sure if no sad harm had happ'd 

Long since thou wouldst her see. 

" For when she heard thy grievous chance, 

She tore her hair, and cried, — 
f Alas ! I've slain the comeliest knight, 

All through my folly and pride ! 

" ' And now to' atone for my sad fault, 

And his dear health regain, 
I '11 go myself and nurse my love, 

And soothe his bed of pain.' 

" Then mounted she her milk-white steed, 

One morn, at break of day ; 
And two tall yeomen went with her, 

To guard her on the way." 

Sad terror smote Sir Bertram's heart, 
And grief o'erwhelmed his mind : 

" Trust me (said he), I ne'er will rest 
Till I thy lady find." 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

That night he spent in sorrow and care ; 

And with sad-boding heart, 
Or ever the dawning of the day, 

His brother and he depart. 

" Now, brother, we 11 our ways divide, 

O'er Scottish hills to range ; 
Do thou go North, and I '11 go West, 

And all our dress we '11 change. 

" Some Scottish carle hath seized my love, 

And borne her to his den ; 
And ne'er will I tread English ground 

Till she is restored again." 

The brothers straight their paths divide, 

O'er Scottish hills to range ; 
And hide themselves in quaint diguise, 

And oft their dress they change. 

Sir Bertram clad in gown of gray, 

Most like a palmer poor, 
To halls and castles wanders round, 

And begs from door to door. 

Sometimes a minstrel's garb he wears, 
With pipes so sweet and shrill; 

And wends to every tower and town, 
O'er every dale and hill. 

One day, as he sat under a thorn, 

All sunk in deep despair, 
An aged pilgrim passed him by, 
Who marked his face of care : 

" All minstrels yet that ever I saw, 

Are full of game and glee ; 
But thou art sad and woe-begone ! 

I marvel whence it be!" 
p 



313 



314 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH, 

" Father, I serve an aged Lord, 

Whose grief afflicts my mind ; 
His only child is stolen away, 

And fain I would her find." 

" Cheer up, my son ; perchance (he said). 

Some tidings I may bear ; 
For oft when human hopes have failed. 

Then heavenly comfort 's near. 

" Behind yon hills so steep and high, 

Down in the lowly glen, 
There stands a castle fair and strong, 

Far from the abode of men. 

" As late I chanced to crave an alms, 

About this evening hour, 
Methought I heard a lady's voice, 

Lamenting in the tower. 

" And when I asked, what harm had happ'd 

What Lady sick there lay? 
They rudely drove me from the gate, 

And bade me wend away." 

These tidings caught Sir Bertram's ear, 

He thanked him for his tale ; 
And soon he hasted o'er the hills, — 

And soon he reached the vale. 

Then drawing near those lonely towers, 

Which stood in dale so low, 
And sitting down beside the gate, 

His pipes he 'gan to blow. 

" Sir Porter, is thy Lord at home, 

To hear a minstrel's song? 
Or may I crave a lodging here, 

Without offence or wrong?" 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

" My Lord (lie said) is not at home 

To hear a minstrel's song; 
And should I lend thee lodging here, 

My life would not be long." 

He played again so soft a strain, — 
Such power sweet sounds impart, — 

He won the churlish Porter's ear, 
And moved his stubborn heart. 

" Minstrel (he said), thou play'st so sweet, 
Fair entrance thou shouldst win ; 

But, alas ! I 'm sworn upon the rood 
To let no stranger in. 

" Yet, minstrel, in yon rising cliff 
Thou 'It find a sheltering cave ; 

And here thou shalt my supper share, 
And there thy lodging have." 

All day he sits beside the gate, 
And pipes both loud and clear ; — 

All night, he watches round the walls, 
In hopes his love to hear. 

The first night, as he silent watched, 

All at the midnight hour, 
He plainly heard his lady's voice, 

Lamenting in the tower. 

The second night, the moon shone clear, 

And gilt the spangled dew ; 
He saw his lady through the grate, 

But 't was a transient view. 

The third night, wearied out, he slept 

'Till near the morning tide , 
When, starting up, he seized his sword, 

And to the castle hied. 



315 



316 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

When, lo ! he saw a ladder of ropes 

Depending from the wall : 
And o'er the mote was newly laid 

A poplar strong and tall. 

And soon he saw his love descend, 

Wrapt in a Tartan plaid ; 
Assisted by a sturdy youth, 

In Highland garb y-clad. 

Amazed, confounded at the sight, 

He lay unseen and still ! 
And soon he saw them cross the stream, 

And mount the neighbouring hill. 

Unheard, unknown of all within, 

The youthful couple fly ; 
But what can 'scape the lover's ken ! 

Or shun his piercing eye ! 

With silent step he follows close 

Behind the flying pair ; 
And saw her hang upon his arm, 

With fond familiar air. 

" Thanks, gentle youth," she often said; 

" My thanks thou well hast won ; 
For me, what wiles hast thou contrived ! 

For me, what dangers run ! 

" And ever shall my grateful heart 

Thy services repay:" — 
Sir Bertram could no further hear, 

But cried, " Vile traitor, stay! 

" Vile traitor ! yield that lady up !" — 
And quick his sword he drew ; 

The stranger turned in sudden rage, 
And at Sir Bertram flew. 






THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

With mortal hate their vigorous arms 

Gave many a vengeful blow : 
But Bertram's stronger hand prevailed 

And laid the stranger low. 

" Die, traitor, die !" — A deadly thrust 
Attends each furious word ; — 

Ah ! then fair Isabel knew his voice, 
And rushed beneath his sword. 

— " O stop (she cried), O stop thy arm ! 

Thou dost thy brother slay !" — 
And here the Hermit paused, and wept: 

His tongue no more could say. 

At length, he cried, " Ye lovely pair, 

How shall I tell the rest ? 
Ere / could stop my piercing sword, 

It fell, and stabbed her breast ! " 

" Wert thou thyself that hapless youth* 

Ah ! cruel fate !" they said — 
The Hermit wept, and so did they : 

They sighed; — he hung his head. 

" O blind and jealous rage (he cried), 

What evils from thee flow !" 
The Hermit paused — they silent mourned ; 

He wept, and they were woe. 

" Ah ! when I heard my brother's name, 

And saw my lady bleed, 
I raved, I wept, I cursed my arm, 

That wrought the fatal deed ! 



317 



" In vain I clasped her to my breast, 
And closed the ghastly wound ; 

In vain I pressed his bleeding corpse, 
And raised it from the ground. 



318 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

" My brother, alas ! spake never more. 

His precious life was flown. — 
She kindly strove to sooth my pain, 

Regardless of her own." 

" Bertram (she said), be comforted, 

And live to think on me ; 
May we in Heaven that union prove, 

Which here was not to be ! 

" Bertram (she said), I still was true ; 

Thou only hadst my heart : 
May we hereafter meet in bliss ! 

We now, alas ! must part. 

" For thee, I left my father's hall, 

And flew to thy relief, 
When, lo ! near Cheviot's fatal hills, 

I met a Scottish chief, — 

" Lord Malcolm's son, whose proffered love 

I had refused with scorn ; 
He slew my guards, and seized on me, 

Upon that fatal morn. 

" And in these dreary, hated walls 

He kept me close confined ; 
And fondly sued, and warmly pressed, 
To win me to his mind. 

" Each rising morn increased my pain, 

Each night increased my fear ! 
When, wandering in this northern garb, 

Thy brother found me here. 

" He quickly formed this brave design, 

To set me captive free ; 
And on the moor his horses wait, 

Tied to a neighbouring tree. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

" Then haste, my love, escape away, 

And for thyself provide ; 
And sometimes fondly think on her 

Who should have been thy bride ! " 

Thus pouring comfort on my soul, 

E'en with her latest breath, 
She gave one parting fond embrace, 

And closed her eyes in death. 

In wild amaze, — in speechless woe, 

Devoid of sense I lay : 
Then sudden, all in frantic mood, 

I meant myself to slay : 

And rising up in furious haste, 

I seized the bloody brand :* 
A sturdy arm here interposed, 

And wrenched it from my hand. 

A crowd, that from the castle came, 
Had missed their lovely ward ; 

And seizing me, to prison bare, 
And deep in dungeon barred. 

It chanced, that on that very morn 
Their chief was prisoner ta'en : 

Lord Percy had us soon exchanged, 
And strove to soothe my pain. 

And soon these honoured, dear remains, 
To England were conveyed ; 

And there, within their silent tombs, 
With holy rites were laid. 

For me, I loathed my wretched life, 
And oft to end it sought ; 

* Sword. 



319 



320 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

Till time, and thought, and holy men, 
Had better counsels taught. 

They raised my heart to that pure source. 

Whence heavenly comfort flows : 
They taught me to despise the world, 

And calmly bear its woes. 

No more the slave of human pride, 

Vain hope, and sordid care ; 
I meekly vowed to spend my life 

In penitence and prayer. 

The bold Sir Bertram, now no more 

Impetuous, haughty, wild; 
But poor and humble Benedict, 

Now lowly, patient, mild. 

My lands I gave to feed the poor, 

And sacred altars raise ; 
And here a lonely anchorite, 

I came to end my days. 

This sweet, sequestered vale I chose, 
These rocks, and hanging grove ; 

For oft beside this murmuring stream 
My love was wont to rove. 

My noble friend approved my choice ; 

This bless 'd retreat he gave : 
And here I carved her beauteous form, 

And scooped this holy cave. 

Full fifty winters, all forlorn, 

My life I 've lingered here ; 
And daily o'er this sculptured saint 

I drop the pensive tear. 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 

And thou, dear brother of my heart ! 

So faithful and so true, 
The sad remembrance of thy fate 

Still makes my bosom rue ! 

Yet not unpitied passed my life, 

Forsaken, or forgot; 
The Percy and his noble son 

Would grace my lowly cot. 

Oft the great Earl, from toils of state, 
And cumb'rous pomp of power, 

Would gladly seek my little cell, 
To spend the tranquil hour. 

But length of life is length of woe ! 

I lived to mourn his fall : 
I lived to mourn his godlike son, 

Their friends and followers all. 

But thou the honours of thy race, 
Loved youth, shall now restore ; 

And raise again the Percy name 
More glorious than before. 

He ceased, and on the lovely pair 

His choicest blessings laid : 
While they with thanks and pitying tears 

His mournful tale repaid. 

And now what present course to take, 

They ask the good old sire ; 
And guided by his sage advice, 

To Scotland they retire. 

Meantime their suit such favour found 

At Raby's stately hall, 
Earl Neville and his princely spouse 

Now gladly pardon all. 
p 2 



321 



322 



THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH, 

She, suppliant at her * nephew's throne. 

The royal grace implored : 
To all the honours of his race 

The Percy was restored. 

The youthful Earl still more and more 
Admired his beauteous dame : 

Nine noble sons to him she bore, 
All worthy of their name. 



King Henry V— A.D. HIS. 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 






David I., king of Scotland, first invaded England in 1137, but 
by the powerfully eloquent and pious mediation of Thurstan, 
archbishop of York, he was induced to suspend his warfare till the 
return of Stephen from Normandy ; when, it was hoped, that his 
claim on Northumberland might be amicably settled. This, how- 
ever, not taking place, he again made an incursion, after Easter, 
1138. The leaders on both sides, and the events of the engage- 
ment, which is better known by the appellation of the " Battle of 
the Standard," are faithfully related in the following ballad. 



The welkin dark o'er Cuton-Moor, 

With dreary clouds did lower ! — 
The woeful carnage of that day 

Shall Scotland aye deplore. 

The river Tees full oft did sigh, 

As she rolled her winding flood, 
That ever her silver tide so clear, 

Should be swelled with human blood. 

King David he stood on the rising hill, 

And the verdant prospect viewed ; 
And he saw that sweet river which over the moor 

Rolled on her silver flood. 



324 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

O then bespake that noble King, 

As grief his heart subdued ; — 
" And ever I mourn that yon fair stream 

Should be stained with human blood ! " 

King David he saw the verdant moor 
With wild-flowers all bestrewed ; — 

" And ever I'm grieved that so green a moor 
Must be stained with human blood!" 

" But more am I grieved, alas ! (he cried), 

And more my heart is woed, 
That so many warriors, young and brave, 

Must this day shed their blood !" 

As princely a host this King did lead, 

As ever marched on plain ; 
Ah ! that so many a warrior brave 

Should be so quickly slain ! 

And first marched forth the Galloway men, 
From the ancient Picts who sprang ; 

Their spears all so bright, and bucklers strong, 
For many miles they rang. 

And then came on the Norman troops, 

With English them among : 
For the Empress Maud they came to fight, 

And right that lady's wrong. 

And then marched forth the Scottish foot, 
And then marched forth the horse ; — 

In armour strong all those warriors came, 
A great and warlike force ! 

King David looked athwart the moor, 
With Prince Henry, his brave son ; 

And they were aware of the English host, 
Now merrily marching on. 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

O then called forth the king David, 

And loudly called he, — 
" And who is here in all my camp 

Can describe yon host to me? " 

Then came there one beside the tent, 

An Englishman was he; 
'T was not long since from the English host 

That traitorous wight did flee. 

" Now tell me yon hosts," the King he cried, 
" And thou shalt have gold and fee ; 

And who is yon chief that rides along, 
With his locks so aged gray ? " 

" O, that is Walter de Gaunt you see, 
And he hath been gray full long; 

But many the troops that he doth lead, 
And they are stout and strong." 

" And who is yon chief, so bright to see, 
With his troops that beat the plain ? " 

" O, that 's the young Earl of Albemarle, 
Who 's leading his gallant train. 

" A more gallant warrior than that lord, 

Is not yon host among ; 
And the gallant troops that he doth lead, 

Like him are stout and strong." 

" And who yon shining warriors two, 
With their troops y-clad the same?" 

" O, they are the Bruces, that in this fight 
Have come to acquire them fame." 

Then called he out, that king David, 

And full of woe spake he, — 
" And ever I hold those Bruces false, 

For much they owe to me ! 



325 



326 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

" And who 's yon chief of giant height, 

And bulk so huge to see?" 
" Walter Espec is that chief's name, 

And a potent chief is he ; 

" His stature 's large as the mountain oak, 

And eke as strong his might ; 
There 's never a chief in all the north, 

Can dare with him to fight ! " 

" And who 's yon youth, yon youth I see 

Galloping o'er the moor ? — 
His troops, that follow so gallantly, 

Proclaim him a youth of power." 

" Young Roger de Mowbray is that youth, 
And he 's sprung of the royal line ; 

His wealth and followers, O King ! 
Are almost as great as thine." 

" And who 's yon aged chief I see, 

All clad in purple vest ? " 
" O, that 's the Bishop of the Orkney Isles, 

And he all the host doth bless ! 

" And all the rest are noblemen, 
Of fortune and fame each one ; 

From Nottingham, and from Derbyshire, 
Those valiant chieftains come." 

" But what 's yon glittering tower I see, 

In the centre of the host? " 
" O, that 's the hallowed Standard, of which 

The English make such boast ! 

" A Mast of a Ship it is so high, 
All bedecked with gold so gay ; 

And on its top is a holy Cross, 
That shines as bright as the day : 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

" Around it hang the holy banners 

Of many a blessed saint : 
Saint Peter, and John of Beverly, 

And Saint Wilfred there they paint : 

" The aged folk around it throng, 
With their old hairs all so gray ; 

And many a chieftain there bows down, 
And so heartily doth pray !" 

then bespake the King of Scots — 
And so heavily spake he — 

" And had I but yon holy standard, 
Right gladsome should I be ! 

" And had I but yon holy standard, 
That there so high doth tower ; 

1 would not care for yon English host, 
Nor all yon chieftains' power ! 

" O, had I but yon holy rood, 
That there so bright doth show ; 

I would not care for yon English host, 
Nor the worst that they could do." 

Then well spake he, the Prince Henry, 
And like a brave prince spake he : 

" O, let us but fight like valiant men, 
And we '11 make yon hosts to flee. 

" O, let us but fight like valiant men, 
And to Christ his will yet bow, 

And yon holy standard shall be ours, 
And the victory also ! " 

Prince Henry was as brave a youth 

As ever fought in field : 
And many a warrior, that dread day, 

To him his life did yield. 



327 



328 THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

Prince Henry was as fair a youth 

As the sun did e'er espy ; 
Full many a lady in Scottish land, 

For that young prince did sigh. 

Prince Henry he called his young foot-page, 
And thus to him spake he : — 

" O heed my words, and serve me true, 
And thou shalt have gold and fee. 

" Stand thou on yonder rising hill, 

(Full safe, I ween, the site), 
And thence, oh ! mark thee well my crest, 

In all the thickest fight : 

" And if, o'ercome by wounds, I fall — 
Then take thee a swift, swift steed, 

And from this moor, to Dumfries town, 
O ride thee away with speed. 

" There to the Lady Alice wend — 

You know that lovely fair ; 
For the fairest maid in all that town 

Cannot with her compare ! 

" And tell that lady of my woe, 

And tell her of my love ; 
And give to her this golden ring, 

My tenderest faith to prove. 

" And strive to cheer that lovely maid, 

In all her grief and care ; 
For well 1 know her gentle heart 

Did ever hold me dear." 

And now the English host drew near, 

And all in battle array ; 
Their shining swords and glittering spears 

Shot round a brilliant ray. 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

And now both valiant hosts came near, 

Each other bent to slay ; 
While, watchful, hovered o'er their heads 

Full many a bird of prey. 

The sun behind the dark, dark clouds, 

Did hide each beamy ray ; 
As fearful to behold the woe 

That marked that dreadful day. 

The thundering winds of heaven arose, 

And rushed from pole to pole ; 
As raised to drown the groans and sighs 

Of many a dying soul ! 

Stem Death — he heard the shout of war, 

That echoed round so loud ; 
And he roused him to the embattled field, 

To feast on human blood. 

And first, the Pictish race began 

The carnage of the day : 
The cries they made were like the storm 

That rends the rocks away ! 

Those fierce, fierce men of Galloway, 

Began that day of dole ; 
And their shouts were like the thunder's roar, 

When heard from pole to pole. 

Now bucklers rang 'gainst swords and spears ; 

Now arrows dimmed the plain ; 
And many a warrior lay full low, 

And many a chief was slain. 

O woeful, woeful was that day, 

To child and widow drear ! 
For there fierce Death, o'er human race, 

Did triumph far and near. 



329 



330 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

Drear was the day! — in dark, dark clouds, 

The welkin all endrowned ; 
But drearier far the woeful scene 

Of carnage all around ! 

Laden with death's unpitying arm, 

Swords fell and arrows flew : 
The widowed wife and fatherless child 

That day of dole shall rue. 

Weep, dames of Scotland ! weep and wail, 

Let your sighs re-echo round ; 
Ten thousand brave Scots that hailed the morn, 

At night lay dead on the ground. 

And ye, fair dames of merry England ! 

As fast your tears must pour ; 
For many 's the valiant Englishman 

That ye shall see no more ! 

Sigh, dames of England ! and lament, 

And many a salt tear shed ; 
For many an Englishman hailed that morn, 

That ere the night was dead. 

The Scots they fled ; but still their King, 

With his brave son by his side, 
Fought long the foe. — Brave King and Prince, 

Of Scotland aye the pride ! 

The Scots they fled ; but still their King, 
With his brave son, fought full well ; 

Till o'er the moor an arrow it flew, 
And brave Prince Henry fell. 

All this espied his young foot-page, 

From the hill where he abode ; 
And soon hath he mounted a swift, swift steed, 

And soon from the hill hath rode. 






THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

And he hath crossed the Tees' fair stream, 

Now swelled with human blood ; 
The' affrighted page he never staid, 

Till to Dumfries he had rode. 

Fair Alice was gone to the holy Kirk, 

With a sad heart did she go ; 
And ever so fast she cried to Heaven, — 

" Prince Henry save from woe ! '' 

Fair Alice she hied her to the choir, 
Where the priest did chant so slow ; 

And ever she cried, — " May the holy Saints 
Prince Henry save from woe !" 

Fair Alice she knelt by the hallowed Rood, 

While fast her tears did flow ; 
And ever she cried, — " Oh! sweet Saviour, 

Prince Henry save from woe ! " 

Fair Alice looked out at the kirk-door, 

And heavy her heart did beat ; 
For she was aware of the Prince's page 

Galloping down the street. 

Again fair Alice looked out to see, 

And well nigh she did swoon ; 
For now she was sure it was that page, 

Came galloping through the town. 

" Now, Christ thee save ! thou sweet young page ; 

Now Christ thee save and see ! 
And how doth sweet Prince Henry, 

I pray thee tell to me ? " 

The page he looked at the fair Alice, 

And his heart was full of woe ; 
The page he looked at the fair Alice, 

Till his tears began to flow. 



331 



332 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

" Ah, woe is me ! " sad Alice cried, 

And tore her golden hair ; 
And so fast she wrung her lily hands, 

All woed with sad despair. 

" The English keep the bloody field, 
Full many a Scot is slain " 

" But, lives Prince Henry?" that lady cried, 
" All else to me is vain ! — 

" Oh ! lives the Prince ? I pray thee tell ! " 

Fair Alice still did call ; 
" These eyes did see a keen arrow flee, 

Did see Prince Henry — fall ! " 

Fair Alice she sat her on the ground, 

And never a word she spake ; 
But like the pale image did she look, 

For her heart was nigh to break. 

The rose that once so tinged her cheek, 

Was now, alas ! no more : 
But the whiteness of her lily skin, 

It was fairer than before ! 

" Fair lady, rise ! " the page exclaimed, 

" Nor lay thee here thus low." 
She answered not ; but heaved a sigh, 

That spake her heartfelt woe ! 

Her maidens came, and strove to cheer, 

But in vain was all their care ; 
The Townsfolk wept to see that lady 

O'erwhelmed with despair. 

They raised her from the danky ground, 

And sprinkled water fair : 
But the coldest water from the spring 

Was not so cold as her. 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

And now came horsemen from the town, 
That the Prince had sent with speed ; 

With tidings to Alice that he did live, 
To ease her of her dread. 

For, when the hapless Prince did fall, 

The arrow did not him slay ; 
But his followers did bravely rescue him, 

And conveyed him safe away, — 

Bravely they rescued that noble Prince, 

And to fair Carlisle him bore ; 
And there that brave young Prince did live, 

Though wounded, sad, and sore. 

Fair Alice the wond'rous tidings heard, 
And thrice, for joy, she sighed; — 

That hapless fair, when she heard the news, 
She rose — she smiled — and died ! 

The tears that her fair maidens shed, 
Ran free from their bright eyes ; 

The echoing wind that then did blow, 
Was burdened with their sighs. 

The page he saw the lovely Alice 

In a deep grave let down, 
And at her head a green turf laid, 

And at her feet a stone ! 

Then, with many a tear and many a sigh, 
Hath he hied him on his way ; 

And he hath come to Carlisle town, 
All clad in black array. 

And now he hath come to the Prince's hall, 

And lowly bent his knee, — 
" And how is the lady Alice so fair ? 

My page, come and tell to me." 



333 



334 



THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

'• Oh ! the lady Alice so lovely fair, 

Alas ! is dead and gone ! 
And at her head is a green-grass turf, 

And at her heels a stone. 

" The lady Alice is dead and gone, 
She sleeps on the Kirk-hill side ; 

And all for love of thee, O Prince ! 
That beauteous lady died. 

" And where she 's laid the green turf grows, 

And a cold grave-stone is there, 
But the dew-clad turf, nor the cold, cold stone, 

Is not so cold as her." 

Oh ! then Prince Henry sad did sigh, 

His heart all full of woe : 
That hapless Prince he beat his breast, 

And his tears began to flow. 

" And art thou gone, my sweet Alice ! 

And art thou gone ? (he cried) : 
Ah ! would to Heaven that I with thee, 

My faithful love, had died. 

" And have I lost thee, my sweet Alice ! 

And art thou dead and gone? 
And at thy dear head a green grass turf, 

And at thy feet a stone ! 

" The turf that's o'er thy grave, dear Alice ! 

Shall with my tears be wet ; 
And the stone at thy feet shall melt, love ! 

E'er I will thee forget." 

And when the news came to merry England, 

Of the battle in the North ; 
O then King Stephen and his nobles 

So merrily marched forth : 






THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR. 

And they have had justs and tournaments, 

And have feasted o'er and o'er, 
And merrily, merrily have they rejoiced, 

For the victory of Cuton-Moor. 

But many a sigh adds to the wind, 

And many a tear to the shower, 
And many a bleeding heart hath broke, 

For the battle of Cuton-Moor ! 

And many 's the widow all forlorn, 

And helpless orphan poor, 
And many 's the maiden that shall rue 

The victory of Cuton-Moor. 

The Lady Alice is laid full low, 
And her maidens' tears do pour ; 

And many 's the wretch with them shall weep, 
For the victory of Cuton-Moor. 

The holy priest doth weep, as he sings 

His masses o'er and o'er ; 
And all for the souls of them that were slain, 

At the battle of Cuton-Moor ! 



335 



Evans. 



COLIN AND LUCY 

g Pa£t0raT 3SaHatr* 

BY THOMAS TICKELL.* 



Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, 

Bright Lucy was the grace ; 
Nor e'er did Liffey's limpid stream 

Reflect so sweet a face : 

Till luckless love and pining care 

Impaired her rosy hue, 
Her dainty lip, her damask cheek, 

And eyes of glossy blue. 

Ah ! have you seen a lily pale, 
When beating rains descend? — 

So drooped this slow-consuming maid, 
Her life now near its end! 

By Lucy warned, of flattering swains 

Take heed, ye easy fair : 
Of vengeance due to broken vows, 

Ye flattering swains beware. 

* " To Tickell cannot be refused a high place among the minor poets." — 
Johnson. Vide Spectator, No. 620, for a poem of his. He was the inti- 
mate friend and secretary of Addison, and died in 1740. 



COLIN AND LUCY. 

Three times, all in the dead of night, 

A bell was heard to ring ; 
And at her window shrieking thrice, 

The raven flapp'd its wing. 

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 

The solemn boding sound ; 
And thus in dying words bespoke, 

The virgins weeping round. 

" I hear a voice you cannot hear, 

That cries, I must not stay, — 
I see a hand you cannot see, 

That beckons me away. 

" Of a false swain and broken heart, 

In early youth I die ; 
Am I to blame, because the bride 

Is twice as rich as I ? 

" Ah ! Colin, give not her thy vows, — 

Vows due to me alone ; 
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, 

Nor think him all thy own. 

" To-morrow, in the Church to wed 

Impatient both prepare ; 
But know, false man! and know, fond maid, 

Poor Lucy will be there. 

" Then, bear my corse, ye comrades dear, 
The bridegroom blithe to meet ; — 

He, in his wedding trim so gay, 
I, in my winding sheet.'' 

She spoke — she died ; her corse was borne 
The bridegroom blithe to meet, — 

He in his wedding trim so gay, 
She in her winding-sheet. 
Q 



337 



338 



COLIN AND LUCY. 

What then were perjured Colin's thoughts?- 
How were those nuptials kept ? 

The bridesmen flock round Lucy dead, 
And all the village wept. 

Compassion — shame — remorse — despair, 

At once his bosom swell ; 
The damps of death bedewed his brow, 

He shook — he groaned — he fell. 

From the vain bride (ah ! bride no more !) 

The varying crimson fled, 
When, stretched beside her rival's corse, 

She saw her lover dead. 

He to his Lucy's new-made grave, 

Conveyed by trembling swains, 
In the same mould, beneath one sod, 

For ever now remains. 

Oft at this place the constant hind, 

And plighted maid are seen, 
With garlands gay, and true-love knots, 

They deck the sacred green. 

But swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art, 

This hallowed ground forbear ; 
Remember Colin's dreadful fate, 

And fear to meet him there ! 



THE HERMIT 



BV DR. GOLDSxMITH. 



This and " The Friar of Orders Gray" were written nearly at the 
same time ; and they are both indebted, for some parts of the nar- 
rative and imagery, to an old fragment, — " The Gentle Herdsman," 
printed in Percy's Reliques, v. 2, 87. Dr. Percy has, in addition, 
embodied in his poem, several little fragments of old ballads, now 
lost, contained in the plays of Shakspeare. 



" Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 

And guide my lonely way, 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 

" For here, forlorn and lost, I tread, 

With fainting steps and slow, 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 

Seem lengthening as I go." 

" Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 

" To tempt the dangerous gloom ! 
For yonder faithless phantom * flies 

To lure thee to thy doom. 

"Which the base vulgar do call" Jack o' the Lantern. A legend of a 
certain Friar John, appears in old times to have been, somehow or other, 



^40 THE HERMIT. 

"Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And, though my portion is hut scant, 

I give it with good will. 

" Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, — 

My blessing, and repose. 

popularly connected with this treacherous luminary ; at least, in the absence 
of opportunity for further search, we may infer as much from the words of 
Milton : — 

" She was pinched and pulled, she said, 
And he by Friar's lantern led." — & Allegro. 

The Ignis Fatuus, i. e. wild-fire, according to Volta, consists of inflamma- 
ble air, produced by the dissolution of vegetable matter contained in marshy 
places, and fired by the electric properties of fogs and other atmospheric 
agencies. Another meteoric appearance, commonly seen on the banks of 
rivers, is styled Draco Volans, i. e. Flying Dragon, and is of a more dense 
nature than the first, adhering to the clothes of those who approach it, with- 
out the slightest combustible effect. The different properties of various 
earthy meteors are thus alluded to by Thomson : — 

" Drear is the state of the benighted wretch, 
Who then, bewildered, wanders through the dark, 
Full of pale fancies, and chimeras huge ; 
Nor visited by one directive ray, 
From cottage streaming, or from airy hall. 
Perhaps, impatient as he stumbles on, 
Struck from the root of slimy rushes, blue, 
The Wild-fire scatters round, or gathered trails 
A length of flame deceitful o'er the moss : 
Whither decoyed by the fantastic blaze, 
Now lost, and now renewed, he sinks absorpt, — 
Rider and horse, — amid the miry gulph ; 
While still, from day to day, his pining wife, 
And plaintive children, his return await, — 
In wild conjecture lost. At other times, 
Sent by the better genius of the night, — 
Innoxious, gleaming on the horse's mane, 
The meteor sits ; and shews the narrow path, 
That winding leads through pits of death, or else 
Instructs him how to take the dangerous ford." — Autumn. Ed. 



THE HERMIT. 



341 



11 No flocks, that range the valley free, 

To slaughter I condemn : 
Taught by that Power who pities me, 

I learn to pity them. 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 

And water from the spring. 

" Then, pilgrim, turn — thy cares forego ; 

All earth-born cares are wrong : 
Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long." 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell; 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure, 

The lonely mansion lay ; 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care : 
The wicket, opening with a latch, 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their evening rest, 
The hermit trimmed his little fire, 

And cheered his pensive guest ; 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gaily pressed and smiled ; 

And, skilled in legendary lore, 
The lingering hours beguiled. 



342 



THE HERMIT. 



Around, in sympathetic mirth, * 

Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit 'spied, 

With answering care opprest : 
" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 

" The sorrows of thy breast. 

" From better habitations spurned, 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturned, 

Or unregarded love ? 

" Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things, 

More trifling still than they. 

" And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep ? 

" And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest ! 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

* This, with many other pictorial descriptions in this ballad, ha\e ever 
gained the admiration of all readers of taste and feeling. They are especially 
the delight of children — and they are by no means the worst judges of what 
is true to nature ; and if the sight of these, in after-life, should excite a vivid 
recollection of that happy and innocent age, the effect on the mind mast 
certainly be pleasing, and might be improving and beneficial.— Ed. 



THE HERMIT. 



343 



" For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the sex," he said ; 
But while he spoke, a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betrayed. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 

Swift mantling to the view ; 
Like colours o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, — as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest, 

A maid in all her charms ! 

And, " Ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn (she cried) ; 
Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 

Where Heaven and you reside. 

" But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

" My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy Lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was marked as mine, 

He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumbered suitors came ; 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 

And felt or feigned a flame. 

" Each hour a mercenary crowd 

With richest proffers strove ; 
Among the rest young Edwin bowed, 

But never talked of love. 



344 



THE HERMIT. 

" In humble, simplest habit clad, 

No wealth or power had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 

But these were All to me. 

" The blossom opening to the day. 

The dews of heaven refined, 
Could nought of purity display 

To emulate his mind. 

" The dew, the blossoms of the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his — but, woe to me ! 
Their constancy was mine. 

" For still I tried each fickle art. 

Importunate and vain ; 
And, while his passion touched my heart, 

I triumphed in his pain. 

" Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 

And well my life shall pay • 
I '11 seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

" And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ! 
T was so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I." 

" Forbid it, Heaven! " the Hermit cried, 
And clasped her to his breast : 

The wondering fair one turned to chide — 
'T was Edwin's self that pressed ! 



THE HERMIT. 

" Turn, Angelina, ever dear ! 

My charmer ! turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restored to love and thee. 

" Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign : 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that 's mine ? 

— " No, never from this hour to part ! 

We '11 live and love so true ; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too !" 



345 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 



BY DR. PERCY. 



It is old and plain ; 



The spinners and the knitters in the sun, 

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones 

Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth (simple trnth), 

And dallies with the innocence of love, 

Like the old age." — Shakspeare. 



It was a Friar of Orders Gray, 

Walked forth to tell his beads ; 
And he met with a Lady fair, 

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 

" Now, Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! 

I pray thee tell to me, 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true love thou didst see ? " 

" And how should I know your true love,* 

From many another one ? " 
" O, by his cockle f hat, and staff, 

And by his sandal shoon." „ 

* Hamlet, act iv., sc. v. 

1 The cockle-shell was worn by pilgrims, as an indication of their havins 
passed the sea in their pilgrimage, or intending to pass it. 






THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

" But chiefly, by his face and mien, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks, that sweetly curled, 

And eyes of lovely blue." 

" O, he is dead and gone, Lady ! * 
Lady, he 's dead and gone ! 

And at his head a green-grass turf, 
And at his heels a stone. 

" Within these holy cloisters long 
He languished, and he died, 

Lamenting of a lady's love, 
And plaining of her pride. 

u Here bore him barefaced on his bier ■;• 

Six proper youths and tall, 
And many a tear bedewed his grave, 

Within yon Kirk-yard wall." 

" And art thou dead, thou gentle youth 
And art thou dead and gone ! 

And didst thou die for love of me ! — 
Break, cruel heart of stone ! " 

" O, weep not, lady, weep not so ! 

Some ghostly comfort seek ; 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 

" O do not, do not, holy friar, 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth, 

That e'er won lady's love. 

" And now, alas ! for thy sad loss, 
I '11 evermore weep and sigh ; 

« Hamlet, act 4, sc. 5. t Ibid. 



347 



348 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

For thee I only wish'd to live, 
For thee I wish to die." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For, violets plucked, the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow again." 

" Our joys as winged dreams do fly — 

Why then should sorrow last ? 
Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

" O ! say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee, say not so ; 
For since my true-love died for me, 

'T is meet my tears should flow. 

" And will he ne'er more come again ? * 

Will he never come again ? — 
Ah ! no, he 's dead, and laid in his grave, 

For ever to remain. 

" His cheek was redder than the rose, 

The comeliest youth was he ; 
But he is dead, and laid in his grave, — 

Alas ! and woe is me ! " 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever; 
One foot on sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never, f 

" Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found, 

Since summer trees were leafy. "J 

Hamlet, act 4, sc. 5. t Much Ado about Nothing, act 2, sc. 3. % Ibid. 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 



349 






" Now, say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee, say not so ! 
My love he had the truest heart ; 

O, he was ever true ! 

" And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, 

And didst thou die for me 1 
Then farewell, home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will be. 

" But first, upon my true-love's grave 

My weary limbs I '11 lay ; 
And thrice I '11 kiss the green-grass turf 

That wraps his breathless clay." 

" Yet stay, fair lady ; rest awhile 

Beneath this cloister wall : 
See, through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, * 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

" Oh ! stay me not, thou holy friar ; 

O stay me not, I pray ! 
No drizzly rain that falls on me, 

Can wash my fault away." 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see, beneath this gown of gray, 

Thy own true love appears. 

" Here, forced by grief, and hopeless love, 

These holy weeds I sought ; 
And here, amid these lonely walls, 

To end my days I thought. 

" But haply (for my year of grace 
Is not yet past away),f 

* Lear, act 3, sc. 4. 

+ At the end of their first year of noviciate or probation, they were per- 



350 



THE SPIRIT S BLASTED TREE. 

Might I still hope to win thy love, 
No longer would I stay." 

" Now, farewell grief, and welcome joy 

Once more unto my heart ; 
For since I 've found thee, lovely youth ! 

We never more will part." 



THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE 



WARRINGTON. 



Through Nannau's * Chase, as Howel passed, 
A chief esteemed both brave and kind ; 

Far distant borne, the stag-hound's cry, 
Came murmuring on the hollow wind. 

Starting, he bent an eager ear — 

How should the sounds return again 1 

His hounds lay wearied from the chase, 
And all at home his hunter train. 



initted to renounce the monastic life, and to decline entering into the order 
in which their trial had been passed. The Gray Friars were the Fran- 
ciscans. 

* This ancient domain is situated about three miles to the north of the 
town of Dolgelly, in Merionethshire. 



THE SPIRIT S BLASTED TREE. 

Then sudden anger flashed his eye, 
And deep revenge he vowed to take, 

On that bold man who dared to force 
His red-deer from the forest brake. 

Unhappy chief ! would nought avail ? 

No signs impress thy heart with fear — 
Thy Lady's dark mysterious dream, 

Thy warning from the hoary Seer? 

Three ravens gave the note of death, 

As through mid air they winged their way, 

Then o'er his head, in rapid flight, 

They croak — they scent their destined prey. 

Ill-omened bird ! as legends say, 

Who hast the wondrous power to know, 

While health fills high the throbbing veins, 
The fated hour when blood must flow. 

Blinded by rage, alone he passed, 
Nor sought his ready vassals' aid : 

But, what his fate, lay long unknown, 
For many an anxious year delay'd. 

A peasant marked his angry eye, 

And saw him reach the Lake's dark bourne ; 
He saw him near a Blasted Oak, 

But never from that hour return. 

Three days pass'd o'er, no tidings came ; 

Where should the chief his steps delay ? 
With wild alarm the servants ran, 

Yet knew not where to point their way. 

His vassals ranged the mountain's height, 
The covert close, the wide-spread plain ; 

But all in vain their eager search, 
They ne'er must see their lord again. 



351 



352 THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE. 

Yet fancy, in a thousand shapes, 

Bore to his home the chief once more ; 

Some saw him on high Moel's * top, 
Some saw him on the winding shore. 

With wonder fraught, the tale went round, 
Amazement chained the hearer's tongue 

Each peasant felt his own sad loss, 
Yet fondly o'er the story hung. 

Oft by the moon's pale shadowy light, 
His aged nurse, and steward gray, 

Would lean to catch the storied sounds, 
Or mark the flitting spirit stray. 

Pale lights on Cadez' f rocks were seen, 
And midnight voices heard to moan ; 

'T was even said, the Blasted Oak, 
Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan. 

And to this day the peasant still, 

With cautious fear, avoids the ground! 

In each wild branch a spectre sees, 
And trembles at each rising sound. 

Ten annual suns had held their course, 
In summer's smile, or winter's storm ; 

The lady shed the widowed tear, 
As oft she traced his manly form. 

Yet still to hope her heart would cling, 
As o'er the mind illusions play ; 

Of travel fond, perhaps her lord 
To distant lands had steered his way. 

* Probably, Moel-FRYN. 
t Cader Idris. 



THE SPIRIT S BLASTED TREE. 

'T was now November's cheerless hour, 
Which drenching rains and clouds deface ; 

Dreary bleak Robell's tract appeared, 
And dull and dark each valley's space. 

Loud o'er the weir the hoarse flood fell, 
And dashed the foamy spray on high; 

The west wind bent the forest tops, 
And angry frowned the ev'ning sky. 

A stranger passed Llanelltid's bourne, 
His dark-gray steed with sweat besprent ; 

Which wearied with the lengthened way, 
Could scarcely gain the hill's ascent. 

The portal reached — the iron bell 

Loud sounded round the outward wall ; 

Quick sprung the warder to the gate, 
To know what meant the clam'rous call. 

" O, lead me to your lady soon, 

Say it is my sad lot to tell, 
To clear the fate of that brave knight 

She long has proved she loved so well." 

Then, as he crossed the spacious hall, 
The menials look surprise and fear ; 

Still o'er his harp old Mordred hung, 

And touched the notes for grief's worn ear. 

The lady sat amidst her train — 

A mellowed sorrow marked her look; 

Then, asking what his mission meant, 

The graceful stranger sighed and spoke : — 

" O could I spread one ray of hope, 
One moment raise thy soul from woe, 

Gladly my tongue would tell its tale, 
My words, at ease, unfettered flow ! 



353 



354 



THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE. 

" Now, lady, give attention due, 
The story claims thy full helief ; 

Even in the worst events of life, 
Suspense removed, is some relief. 

" Though worn by care, see Madoc here, 
Great Glyndur's friend, thy kindred's foe ; 

Ah ! let his name no anger raise, 
For now that mighty chief lies low. 

" E'en from the day when chained by fate, 
By wizard's dream, or potent spell, 

Lingering from sad Salopia's field, 
Reft of his aid, the Percy fell. 

" E'en from that day misfortune still, 

As if for violated faith, 
Pursued him with unwearied step, 

Vindictive still for Hotspur's death. 

" Vanquished at length, the Glyndur fled 
Where winds the Wye her devious flood, 

To find a casual shelter there, 
In some lone cot, or desart wood. 

" Clothed in a shepherd's humble guise, 
He gained by toil his scanty bread ; 

He who had Cambria's sceptre borne, 
And her brave sons to glory led. 

" To penury extreme, and grief, 
The chieftain fell a lingering prey ; 

I heard his last few faltering words, 
Such as with pain I now convey : — 

" ' To Sele's sad widow bear the tale, 

Nor let our horrid secret rest ; 
Give but his corpse to sacred earth, 

Then may my parting soul be blest.' " 



THE SPIRIT S BLASTED TREE. 

" Dim waxed the eye that fiercely shone, 
And faint the tongue that proudly spoke - 

And weak that arm still raised to me, 
Which oft had dealt the mortal stroke. 

" How could I then his mandate bear, 

Or how his last behest obey ? 
A rebel deemed — with him I fled — 

With him I shunned the light of day. 

" Proscribed by Henry's hostile rage, 
My country lost — despoiled my land, 

Desperate I fled my native soil, 

And fought on Syria's distant strand. 

" O had thy long-lamented lord 

The Holy Cross and banner viewed,— 

Died in the sacred cause, — who fell 
Sad victim of a private feud ! 

" Led by the ardour of the chase 
Far distant from his own domain — 

From where Garthmaelan spreads her shade, 
The Glyndur sought the opening plain. 

" With head aloft, and antlers wide, 

A red-buck roused then crossed in view ; 

Stung with the sight, and wild with rage, 
Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew. 

" With bitter taunt, and keen reproach, 
He, all impetuous, poured his rage, 

Reviled the chief as weak in arms, 
And bade him loud the battle wage. 

" Glyndur for once restrained his sword, 
And, still averse, the fight delays ; 

But softened words, like oil to fire, 
Made anger more intensely blaze. 



355 



356 



THE SPIRIT S BLASTED TREE. 

" They fought, and doubtful long the fray ; 

The Glyndur gave the fatal wound ! 
Still mournful must my tale proceed, 

And its last act all dreadful sound. 

" How could we hope for wish'd retreat, 
His eager vassals ranging wide ? 

His bloodhounds' keen sagacious scent 
O'er many a trackless mountain tried? 

" I marked a broad and blasted oak, 
Scorched by the lightning's livid glare ; 

Hollow its stem, from branch to root, 
And all its shrivelled arms were bare. 

" Be this, (I cried) his proper grave ! 

(The thought in me was deadly sin) ; 
Aloft we raised the hapless chief, 

And dropped his bleeding corpse within." 

A shriek from all the damsels burst, 
That pierced the vaulted roofs below ; 

While horror struck, the lady stood, 
A living form of sculptured woe ! 

With stupid stare, and vacant gaze, 
Full on his face her eyes were cast ; 

Absorbed ! she lost her present grief, 
And faintly thought of things long past. 

Like wildfire o'er a mossy heath, 

The rumour through the hamlet ran ; 

The peasants crowd at morning dawn, 
To hear the tale, — behold the man. 

He led them near the Blasted Oak, 

Then, conscious, from the scene withdrew 

The peasants work with trembling haste, 
And lay the whitened bones to view. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 357 

Back they recoiled ! the right-hand still 

Contracted, grasped a rusty sword, 
Which erst in many a battle gleamed, 

And proudly decked their slaughtered lord. 

They bore the corse to Vener's * shrine, 
With holy rites, and prayers addressed ; 

Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang, 
And gave the angry spirit rest. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 



BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 

Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I '11 give thee a silver pound 

To row us o'er the ferry." — 

" Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, 

This dark and stormy water? " 
" O, I 'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, 

And this Lord Ullin's daughter. — 

* The ruins of Kemmer Abbey are about a mile distant from Nauiiau 
House, the church of which is probably the one here meant. 



358 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

" And fast before her father's men, 
Three days we 've fled together ; 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride, 

When they have slain her lover? " 

Out-spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : — 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady. 

" And, by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith * was shrieking ; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men ; 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O, haste thee, haste ! (the lady cries), 
Though tempests round us gather ; 

I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

* Spirit. 






LORD ULLINS DAUGHTER. 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they rowed, amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing : 
— Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 

His wrath was changed to wailing ; 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

" Come back ! come back ! (he cried in grief), 

Across this stormy water; 
And I '11 forgive your Highland chief — 

My daughter ! oh, my daughter ! '' 

'T was vain — the loud waves lashed the shore, 

Return or aid preventing ; 
The waters wild went o'er his child — 

And he was left lamenting. 



359 



LORD SOULIS. 

BY THE LATE J. LEYDEN, M. D. 



The dreadful and appalling end of this vile oppressor, is said to have 
had its foundation in the following fact. The King being tired and 
irritated by the incessant complaints made of his rapacity and 
cruelty, is reported to have said, " I wish he was boiled alive, so 
that I heard no more of him," or words to that effect, by no means 
intending their full import. But 

" It is the curse of Kings to be attended 
By slaves, that take their humour for a warrant ;" 

Some of those present gladly catching at the hasty expression, set 
off for Hermitage, and put it literally into effect ; and the messenger 
dispatched by the King, on hearing of their hasty ^departure, only 
arrived in time to witness the end of the tragedy. 

The ruins of Hermitage Castle are still regarded by the neigh- 
bouring peasants with horror ; and they shrink from looking into the 
apartment where Soulis is said to have had his demoniacal consulta- 
tions ; which is, in reality, the dungeon of the castle, and which 
they suppose to be opened by the demon once in every seven years ! 

The Nine-Stane Rig is a declivity from the hills which separate 
Liddesdale and Teviotdale, sloping to the water of Hermitage. It 
derives its name from a circle of Druidical stones, of which there 
were formerly nine remaining, and now five. 

Red Cap is a popular appellation of a class of spirits, supposed to 
haunt castles and mansions. 

The idea here exhibited of Soulis' attendant demon, is said to be 
taken from the story of the spirit Orthone and the Lord of Cobasse, 
related by Froissart. This tale, which is much too long for inser- 
tion here, will be found in the Border Minstrelsy, vol. iii. 



Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage Castle, 

And beside him old Red-Cap sly : 
" Now tell me, thou sprite, who art mickle of might, 

The death that I must die." 



LORD SOULIS. 

,{ While thou shall bear a charmed life, 

And hold that life of me, 
'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife, 

I shall thy warrant be. 

" Nor forged steel, nor hempen band, 

Shall e'er thy limbs confine, 
Till three-fold ropes of sifted sand 

Around thy body twine. 

" If danger press fast, knock thrice on thy chest, 

With rusty padlocks bound ; 
Turn away your eyes, when the lid shall arise, 

And listen to the sound." 

Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage Castle, 

And Red-Cap was not by, 
And he called on a page, who was witty and sage, 

To go to the barmkin high : 

" And look thou east, and look thou west, 

And quick, come tell to me, 
What troopers haste along the waste, 

And what may their livery be." 

He looked o'er fell, and he looked o'er flat, 

But nothing, I wist, he saw, 
Save a pyot, on a turret that sat, 

Beside a corby craw. 

The page looked out at the skrieh * of day, 

But nothing, I wist, he saw, 
Till a horseman gray, in the royal array, 

Rode down the hazelshaw. 

" Say, why do you cross o'er moor and moss ? " 
So loudly cried the page. 



The nice morn, on the Indian steep, 

From her cabin'd loop-hole peep."— Milton's Comus.— Ed. 



36 L 



362 



LORD SOULIS. 



" I tidings bring, from Scotland's king, 
To Soulis of Hermitage. 

" He bids me tell that bloody warden, 

Oppressor of low and high, 
If ever again his lieges complain, 

The cruel Soulis shall die. " 



By traitorous sleight they seized the knight. 

Before he rode or ran ; 
And through the key-stone of the vault 

They plunged him, horse and man. 

O, May * she came, and May she gaed, 

By Goranberry-Green ; 
And May she was the fairest maid 

That ever yet- was seen. 

O, May she came, and May she gaed, 

By Goranberry tower ; 
And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis, 

That carried her from her bower ! 

He brought her to his castle gray, 

By Hermitage's side; 
Says, " Be content, my lovely May, 

For thou shalt be my bride." 

With her yellow hair, that glittered fair, 

She dried the trickling tear ! 
She sighed the name of Branxholm's heir,— 

The youth that loved her dear. 

" Now be content, my bonny May ! 

And take it for your hame ; 
Or ever and aye shall ye rue the day 

You heard young Branxholm's name." 
* A term for a young lady. 



LORD SOULIS. 

O'er Branxholm tower, ere the morning hour, 
When the lift * is like lead so hlue ; 

The smoke shall roll white on the weary night, 
And the flame shine dimly through. 

Syne he 's called on him Ringan red, 

A sturdy kemp was he ; 
From friend or foe, in border-feud, 

Who never a foot would flee. 

Red-Ringan sped, and the spearman led 

Up Goranberry slack ; 
Ay! many a wight, unmatched in fight, 

Who never more came hack. 

And bloody set the westering sun, 

And bloody rose he up ; 
But little thought young Branxholm's heir, 

Where he that night should sup. 

He shot the roebuck on the lee, 

The dun deer on the law ; 
The glamour f sure was in his e'e, 

When Ringan nigh did draw. 

O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge, 

He sped till day was set ; 
And he thought it Avas his merry men true, 

When he the spearmen met. 

Far from relief, they seized the chief, 

His men were far away ; 
Through Hermitage slack, they sent him back, 

To Soulis Castle gray ; 
Syne onward far from Branxholm tower, 

Where all his merry men lay. 

* Sky. 

+ Magical delusion. 



363 



364 



LORD SOULIS. 

" Now welcome, noble Branxholm's heir J 
Thrice welcome," quoth Soulis to me ; 

" Say, dost thou repair to my castle so fair, 
My wedding guest to be ? — 

And lovely May deserves, per fay ! 
A brideman such as thee." 

And broad and bloody rose the sun, 

And in the barmkin shone ; 
When the page was aware of Red-Ringan there, 

Who came riding all alone. 

To the gate of the tower, Lord Soulis he speeds, — 

As he lighted at the wall, 
Says, " Where did ye stable my stalwart steeds, 

And where do they tarry all? " 

" We stabled them sure, on the Tarras Muir ; 

We stabled them sure," quoth he, — 
" Before we could cross that quaking moss, 

They all were lost but me." 

He clenched his fist, and he knocked on the chest, 

And he heard a stifled groan ; 
And at the third knock, each rusty lock 

Did open, one by one. 

He turn'd away his eyes, as the lid did rise, 

And he listened silently ; 
And he heard breathed slow, in murmurs low, 

" Beware of a coming Tree !" 

In muttering sound, the rest was drowned 

No other word heard he ; 
But slow as it rose, the lid did close, 

With the rusty padlocks three. 



LORD SOULIS. 

Now rose with Branxholm's ae * brother, 

The Teviot, high and low ; 
Bold Walter by name, of mickle fame, 

For none could bend his bow. 

O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there sped, 

The fame of his array ; 
And that Teviotdale would soon assail 

His towers and castle gray. 

With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest, 

And again he heard a groan ; 
And he raised his eyes, as the lid did rise — 

But answer heard he none. 

The charm was broke when the spirit spoke, 

And it murmured sullenly ; 
" Shut fast the door, and for evermore 

Commit to me the key. 

" Alas ! that ever thou rais'dst thine eyes, — 

Thine eyes to look on me ; 
Till seven years are o'er, return no more, 

For here thou must not be." 

Think not but Soulis was wae to yield 

His warlock-chamber o'er ; 
He took the keys from the rusty lock, 

That never were ta'en before. 

He threw them o'er his left shoulder, 

With mickle care and pain ; 
And he bade it keep them fathoms deep, 

Till he returned again. 

And still, when seven years are o'er, 
Is heard the jarring sound, 

* Own. 



m 



366 



LORD SOULIS. 



When slowly opes the charmed door 
Of the chamber under ground. 

And some within the chamber-door 

Have cast a curious eye ; 
But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell, 

The fearful sights they 'spy. 



When Soulis thought on his merry men now, 

A woeful wight was he : 
Says, " Vengeance is mine, and I 11 not repine ; 

But Branxholm's heir shall die." 

Says, " What would you do, young Branxholm, 

Gin ye had me, as I have thee ? " 
" I would take you to the good green- wood, 

And gar your ain hand wale * the tree." 

" Now shall thine ain hand wale the tree, 
For all thy mirth and mickle pride ; 

And May shall choose, if my love she refuse, 
A scrog bush thee beside." 

They carried him to the good green-wood, 
Where the green pines grew in a row ; 

And they heard the cry, from the branches high, 
Of the hungry carrion crow. 

The carried him on, from tree to tree, 

The spiry boughs below : 
" Say, shall it be thine, on the tapering pine, 

To feed the hooded crow?" 

" The fir-tops fall by Branxholm wall, 
When the night's-blast stirs the tree ; 

And it shall not be mine, to die on the pine 
I loved in Infancy." 

* Choose. 



LORD SOULIS. 



367 



Young Branxholm turned him, and oft looked back ; 

And aye he passed from tree to tree : 
Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly * spake : 

" O, sic a death is no for me !'' 

And next they passed the aspin gray, — 

Its leaves were rustling mournfully : 
" Now choose thee, choose thee, Branxholm gay, — 

Say, wilt thou never choose the tree?" 

" More dear to me is the aspin gray, 

More dear than any other tree ! 
For beneath the shade that its branches made, 

Have passed the vows of my love and me." 

Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake, 

Until he did his own men see, 
With witch's hazel in each steel cap, 

In scorn of Soulis' gramary. 
Then shoulder height for glee he lap, 

" Methinks I spy a coming Tree ! " 

" Ay ! many may come, but few return," 

Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramary, — 
" No warrior's hand, in fair Scotland, 

Shall ever dint a wound on me." 

" Now, by my sooth ! (quoth bold Walter), 

If that be true, we soon shall see : " 
His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true, 

But never a wound or scar had he. 

Then up bespake him true Thomas ; f 

He was the Lord of Ersyltoun ; 
" The wizard's spell, no steel can quell, 

-Till once your lances bear him down." 

* Softly. 

t Thomas of Ersyltoun, or Learmont, was reputed a skilful soothsayer, 
and delivered several prophecies ; some of which, however, were only such 



368 



LORD SOULIS. 



They bore him down with lances bright, 
But never a wound or scar had he : 

With hempen bands they bound him tight, 
Both hands and feet, on the Nine-Stane lee. 

That wizard accurst, the bands he burst, 
They mouldered at his magic spell ; 

And neck and heel, in the forged steel, 

They bound him against the charms of hell. 

That wizard accurst, the bands he burst, 
No forged steel his charms could bide ; 

Then up bespake him true Thomas, 

" We'll bind him yet, whate'er betide." 

The black Spae-Book from his breast he took, 
Impressed with many a warlock spell ; 

And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott, * 
Who held in awe th e fiends of hell. 



anticipations of the probable future, as his natural sagacity furnished him 
with. He was supposed by the vulgar to have actually and bodily sojourned 
seven years in Fairy Land, and to have been invested with magical powers 
by the Fairy Queen. With all this, he was a man of worth and piety. One 
prophecy attributed to him, of the future power of the Kings of England, has 
been most happily fulfilled, and, we doubt not, is likely to continue in 
operation. 

" The Waters worship shall his race, 

Likewise the waves of the furthest Sea ; 
For they shall ride o'er Ocean wide, 
With Hempen bridles and horse of Tree." 
* This was the " wondrous Michael Scott," so well and amply celebrated 
in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." 

" A wizard of such might and fame, 
That when in Salamanca's cave, 
Him listed his magic wand to wave, 

The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
' Some of his skill he told to me, 
And, warrior, I could say to thee, 
The words that cleft Eildon Hills in three, 

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone ; 
But to speak them were a deadly sin, 
And for having but thought them my heart within, 
A double penance must be done.'" — Canto II. — Ed. 



LORD SOULIS. 



369 



They buried it deep, where his bones they sleep, * 

That mortal man might never see ; 
But Thomas did save it from the grave, 

When he returned from Faerie. 

The black Spae-Book from his breast he took, 
And turned the leaves with curious hand - 

No ropes did he find the wizard coidd bind, 
But threefold ropes of sifted sand. 

They sifted the sand from the Nine-Stane burn, 

And shaped the ropes so curiously ; 
But the ropes would neither twist nor twine, 

For Thomas true, and his gramary. 

The black Spae-Book from his breast he took, 
And again he turned it with his hand ; 

And he bade each lad of Teviot add 
The barley chaff to the sifted sand.f 

The barley chaff to the sifted sand 

They added still, by handsful nine ; 
But Red-Cap sly, unseen, was by, 

And the ropes would neither twist nor twine. 

And still beside the Nine-Stane burn, 

Ribb'd, like the sand at mark of sea, 
The ropes, that would not twist nor turn, 

Shap'd of the sifted sand you see. 

The black Spae-Book, true Thomas took — 

Again its magic leaves he spread ; 
And he found, that, to quell the powerful spell. 

The wizard must be boiled in lead. 

* Melrose Abbey-Chuich. 

t Michael Scott was fabled to have subdued several spirits under his com- 
mand, for whom he was obliged to find constant employment : he set them 
to make ropes of sea sand ; they applied for leave to add barley chaff, and 
on hi? refusal, were obliged to leave the hopeless work. 
R 2 



370 



LORD SOULIS. 



On a circle of stones they placed the pot : 
On a circle of stones, but barely nine — 

They heated it red and fiery hot, 
Till the burnished brass did glimmer and shine. 

They rolled him up in a sheet of lead ; 

A sheet of lead for a funeral pall ! 
They plunged him in the cauldron red, 

And melted him — lead and bones and all. 

At the Skelfrhill, the cauldron still 

The Men of Liddesdale can shew ; 
And on the spot, where they boiled the pot, 

The spreat * and the deer-hair f ne'er shall grow, 

Scott's Border Minstrelsy. 



* A species of water-rush. 

+ A species of coarse pointed grass, which in May bears a very small but 
beautiful yellow flower. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 

® dFraijmettt. 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



The Pope he was saying the high, high Mass, 

All on Saint Peter's day — 
With the power to him given, by the Saints in Heaven, 

To wash men's sins away. 

The Pope he was saying the blessed Mass, 

And the people kneeled around ; 
And from each man's soul his sins did pass, 

As he kissed the holy ground. 

And all among the crowded throng 

Was still, both limb and tongue, 
While through vaulted roof and aisles aloof, 

The holy accents rung. 

At the holiest word he quivered for fear, 

And faultered in the sound — 
And when he would the chalice rear, 

He dropped it on the ground. 



372 



THE GRAY BROTHER, 



" The breath of one of evil deed * 

Pollutes our sacred day ; — 
He has no portion in our creed — 

No part in what I say. 

" A being, whom no blessed word 

To ghostly peace can bring — 
A wretch, at whose approach abhorred, 

Recoils each holy thing. 

Up ! up, Unhappy ! haste, arise ! 

My adjuration fear ; — 
I charge thee not to stop my voice, 

Nor longer tarry here !" 

Amid them all, a Pilgrim kneeled, 

In gown of sackcloth gray; 
Far journeying from his native field, 

He first saw Rome that day. 

For forty days, and nights so drear, 

I ween he had not spoke ; 
And, save with bread and water clear, 

His fast he ne'er had broke. 

Amid the penitential flock 

Seemed none more bent to pray ; 
But when the holy Father spoke, 

He rose and went his way. 

Again unto his native land 

His weary course he drew ; 
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, 

And Pentland's mountains blue. 

* It was a very ancient superstition amongst the Pagans, long before the 
Christian era, that the presence of an eminently wicked person impeded the 
due celebration of a religious rite. It seems not unlikely that the founda- 
tion of this idea might be traced to the earliest ages of the world; and the 
inquiry would be worth the attention of those who have leisure and ability 
to pursue it.— Ed. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 

His unblest feet his native seat, 

'Mid Esk's fair woods, regain — 
Through woods more fair, no stream more sweet. 

Rolls to the Eastern main. 

And lords to meet the pilgrim came, 

And vassals bent the knee . 
For, all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame. 

Was none more fam'd than he. 

And boldly for his country still 

In battle he had stood — 
Ay ! — e'en when, on the banks of Till, 

Her noblest poured their blood. 

Sweet are the paths — O, passing sweet ! 

By Eske's fair streams, that run 
O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep, 

Impervious to the sun. 

There the 'rapt poet's step may rove, 

And yield the muse the day — 
There beauty, led by timid love, 

May shun the tell-tale ray ; 

From that fair dome where suit is paid 

By blast of bugle free, 
To Auchendinny's hazel glade, 

And haunted Woodhouselee. 

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, 

And Roslin's rocky glen? — 
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, 

And classic Hawthornden 1 

Yet never a path, from day to day, 

The pilgrim's footsteps range, 
Save but the solitary way, 

To Burndale's ruined Grange. 



373 



374 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 



A woeful place was that, I ween, 

As sorrow could desire, 
For nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall, 

And the roof was scathed with fire. 

It fell upon a summer's eve, 

While on Carnethy's head 
The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams 

Had streaked the gray with red ; 

And the convent-bell did of vespers tell 

Newbattle's oaks among ; 
And mingled with the solemn knell, 

Our Lady's evening-song : 

The heavy knell — the choir's faint swell, 

Came slowly down the wind ; 
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, 

As his wonted path he did find. 

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was, 

Nor ever raised his eye, 
Until he came to that dreary place 

Which did all in ruins lie. 

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fir.e, 

With many a bitter groan ; 
And there was aware of a Gray Friar,* 

Resting him on a stone. 

" Now Christ thee save ! (said the Gray Brother), 

Some pilgrim thou seem'st to be'' — 
But in sore amaze, did Lord Albert gaze, 

Nor answer again made he. 

* The crime attributed to the Chief, was that of treacherously setting fire to 
a mansion in the night, and preventing all succour, by which means the 
whole of the inhabitants miserably perished. We may, therefore, suppose 
that the author intends this friar to represent some one of the murdered 
persons. — Ed. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 



375 



" O, come ye from east, or come ye from west, 

Or bring relics from over the sea? — 
Or, come ye from the shrine of St. James the Divine, 

Or St. John of Beverly?" 

" I come not from the shrine of St. James the Divine ; 

Nor bring relics from over the sea — 
I bring but a curse, from our father the Pope, 

Which for ever will cling to thee." 

" Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so, 

But kneel thee down by me ; 
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, 

That absolved thou mayst be." 

" And who art thou, thou Gray Brother ! 

That I should shrive to thee ? 
When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven, 

Hath no power to pardon me !" 

" O, I am sent from a distant clime, 

Five thousand miles away ! 
And all to absolve a foul — fold crime, 

Done here 'twixt night and day." 

The pilgrim kneeled him on the sand, 

And thus began his say : — 
When on his neck an ice-cold hand 

Did that Gray Brother lay. 



Border Minstrelsy. 



THE FATAL HORSE.* 



BY W. HAYLEY. 



Of creatures that to man attend, 

His pastime or his wealth ; 
The Horse we cherish as a friend 

To sickness and to health. 

Bless'd they who shield a steed from woe, 

By age from toil released ! 
And hated be the proud, who shew 

No mercy to their beast ! 

A wretch once doomed, though rich and strong, 

His faithful horse to bleed ; 
But tell his fate, my moral song, 

For that atrocious deed ! 

A Kentish Knight of ancient race ; 

Of his athletic frame, 
Prone to indulge the passions fell, 

Sir GeofFrin his name, 

* In some parish on the Kentish coast, of which the Editor regrets to have 
forgotten the name, (it will probably be found in " Lambard's Perambulation," 
or a County History), there has been found a tradition, corresponding in some 
measure with this ballad. In the church, on an altar-tomb, is the recumbent 
effigy of a Knight, having a horse's head carved by his side, which is 
confessedly not a crest; a similar emblem is seen in other parts of the 
church ; and the vane on the tower, which is very ancient, represents the 
same figure. From these circumstances, it is familiarly called in the vicinity, 
the Horse-Church. — Ed. 



THE FATAL HORSE. 

Against a priest indulged his rage, 

Who charitably good, 
To shield a widow's helpless age, 

His avarice withstood. 

With abject choler, fierce and hot, 
The knight perforce would gain, 

And blend her little garden-plot 
With his superb domain. 

The priest, who, on that very ground, 
To soothe his wrath would strive, 

In frantic passion's fit he bound, 
And buried him alive ! 

The wretch was seized with shame and fear, 
Though he his crime would boast; 

When suddenly he chanced to hear, 
His King lay off the coast. 

'T was gallant Harold, in that day 

Elate with regal power ; 
Becalmed his stately vessel lay, 

Near Geoffrin's high tower. 

The royal mercy to surprise, 

He now resolves with speed ; 
" Haste, hither bring (he wildly cries), 

My strongest, favourite steed." 

It was a steed of noblest kind 

In spirit and in limb, 
On which the desperate knight designed 

To the king's ship to swim ! 

Now by the swelling ocean's side, 

He mounts his courser brave ! 
Spurs him with domineering pride, 

And plunges in the wave ! 



377 



378 



THE FATAL HORSE. 

Used to his bold caprices oft, 

And equal to his weight, 
The courser tossed his mane aloft, 

And swam with breast elate. 

The knight now nourishes his sword, 

As near the ship he draws ; 
The wondrous sight strikes all on board, 

Who throng to find the cause. 

The sailors round their Sovereign crowd, 

Who, on the vessel's stern, 
Now hails the knight's approach aloud, 

Eager his aim to learn. 

" Provoked by villains, one I slew, 

And own him rashly slain ; 
Hence to thy clemency I flew, 

My pardon to obtain ! " 

" Now, by St. George ! thou venturous Knight, 

Thy steed hath nobly done ; 
Swim back, and pardon make thee light, 

Thy pardon he has won ! " 

The knight now with a joyous spring, 

His horse's neck embraced ; 
Then, blessing thrice his gracious King, 

He steered him back in haste. 

Now, as he touched his native sand, 

And near his castle gate, 
He saw the weeping widow stand, 

And mocked her mournful state. 

" Woman, thy threats touch me no more, 

I ride on safety's wing : 
My brave horse brings me safe to shore, 

With pardon from my king ! " 



THE FATAL HORSE. 

" Kings seem to grant what God denies,- 

Trust my prophetic breath, 
(So the indignant dame replies), 

That Horse shall prove thy Death ! " 

She spoke, and with a voice so keen, 

It searched his inmost soul ; 
And caused a storm of fearful spleen, 

Through his dark brain to roll. 

Half credulous, half wildly brave, 
Now doubt, now rage prevails : 

He stood, like a black suspended wave 
Struck by two adverse gales. 

A doubt, by superstition nursed, 
Made all just thoughts recede ; 

Frantic he waved his sword, and pierced 
His life-preserving steed ! 

" Thy prophecies I thus destroy, 
(He cried), thou wretched crone ; 

Threats on my days no more employ, 
But tremble for thy own." 

Striding away, his steed he left 

In his pure blood to roll : 
He quickly, of all aid bereft, 

Breathed out his nobler soul. 

The boastful knight, now gay with pride, 

By his successful crimes, 
Floating on folly's golden tide, 

Prospered in stormy times. 

Ungrateful both to man and beast, 

His sovereign he betrayed ; 
And lent, ere Harold's empire ceased, 

The Norman treacherous aid. 



379 



380 



THE FATAL HORSE. 

The Norman tyrant much caressed 

This proud and abject slave ; 
And lands, by worthier lords possessed, 

For his base succour gave. 

Now years, since that eventful hour 

In which his courser bled, 
Had poured increase of wealth and power 

On his aspiring head : 

As near, with much enlarged estate, 

To his domain he drew, 
He chanced before his castle gate, 

A signal scene to view. 

The scene his war-steeled nerves could shock ; - 

Seated on mossy stones, 
The Widow, leaning 'gainst a rock, 

Wept o'er his Horse's bones ! 

Enraged, from his new steed he vaults, 

Quick with his foot to spurn 
These bones, that bid his bloody faults 

To his base mind return. 

The head, now bleached, his proud foot strikes 

With such indignant speed, 
The bone its fierce aggressor spikes ; — 

'Tis now his turn to bleed. 

The trivial wound, the wrathful knight 

Disdains to search with care, 
But soon he finds, the wound though slight, 

Death lurks in ambush there. 

Now to his bed of sorrow bound, 

By penitential pain, 
He seems, by his heart-reaching wound, 

A purer mind to gain. 



THE FATAL HORSE. 381 

Near to his couch he bids, with care, 

The widow to be brought, 
And speaks to her with softened air, 

His self-correcting thought. 

" True prophetess ! I feel thee now ; 

So God my crimes forgive, 
As I with thee true concord vow 

In comfort mayst thou live. 

" Behold upon this chartered scroll, 

A pictured cottage stand ; 
I give it thee with all my soul, 

With its adjacent land. 

" The only rent I would assuma, 

Be this : At close of day, 
Sit thou, with pity, on my tomb, 

And for my spirit pray ! 

" That tomb be raised by sculpture's aid, 

To warn men from my guilt ; 
My horse's head beside me laid, 

Whose blood I basely spilt!" 

He spoke, — he died. The tomb was made ; — 

His statue looked to Heaven : 
And daily then the widow prayed, 

His crimes might be forgiven ! 






THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL.* 



It is currently believed in Scotland, and on the Borders, that he 
who has courage to rush upon a Fairy festival, and snatch away the 
drinking-cup, shall find it prove to him a cornucopia of good fortune, 
if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. A goblet is still 
carefully preserved in Eden-hall, Cumberland, which is supposed to 
have been seized, at such a banquet, by one of the ancient family of 
Musgrave. The Fairy train vanished, crying aloud — 

" If that glass either break or fall, 
Farewell the luck of Eden-hall ! " 

From this prophecy, the goblet took the name it bears, — The Luck 
of Eden-hall. — Scott's Border Minstrelsy. — W, 



On Eden's wild romantic bowers, 

The summer moonbeams sweetly fall, 

And tint with yellow light the towers — 
The stately towers of Eden-hall. 

There, lonely in the deepening night, 

A lady at her lattice sits, 
And trims her taper's wavering light, 
And tunes her idle lute by fits. 

* For this pleasing ballad, the Editor is indebted to the obliging offer of 
its author, Mr. J. H. Wiffen, the translator of Tasso, and Garcilasso de la 
Vega. 



THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL. 

But little can her idle lute 

Beguile the weary moments now ; 

And little seems the lay to suit 
Her wistful eye and anxious brow. 

For, as the chord her ringer sweeps, 
Oft-times she checks her simple song, 

To chide the froward chance that keeps 
Lord Musgrave from her arms so long. 

And listens, as the wind sweeps by, 
His steed's familiar step to hear — 

Peace, beating heart ! 't was but the cry 
And foot-fall of the distant deer. 

In, lady, to thy bower ; fast weep 
The chill dews on thy cheek so pale ; 

Thy cherished hero lies asleep — 
Asleep in distant Russendale. 

The noon was sultry, long the chase — 
And when the wild stag stood at bay, 

Burbek reflected from its face 
The purple lights of dying day. 

Through many a dale must Musgrave hie- 
Up many a hill his courser strain, 

Ere he behold, with gladsome eye, 
His verdant bowers, and halls again. 

But twilight deepens — o'er the wolds 
The yellow moonbeam rising plays, 

And now the haunted forest holds 
The wanderer in its bosky maze. 

No ready vassal rides in sight ; 

He blows his bugle, but the call 
Roused Echo mocks : farewell to night 

The home-felt joys of Eden-hall! 



383 



384 



THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL. 

His steed he to an alder ties, 

His limbs he on the greensward flings ; 
And, tired and languid, to his eyes 

Woos sorceress slumber's balmy wings. 

A prayer — a sigh, in murmurs faint, 

He whispers to the passing air ; 
The Ave to his patron saint — 

The sigh was to his lady fair. 

'T was well that in that Elfin wood 
He breathed the supplicating charm, 

Which binds the Guardians of the good 
To shield from all unearthly harm. 

Scarce had the night's pale Lady staid 
Her chariot o'er the accustomed oak, 

Than murmurs in the mystic shade, 
The slumberer from his trance awoke. 

Stiff stood his courser's mane with dread — 
His crouching greyhound whined with fear : 

And quaked the wild-fern 'round his head, 
As though some passing ghost were near. 

Yet calmly shone the moonshine pale 
On glade and hillock, flower and tree ; 

And sweet the gurgling nightingale 
Poured forth her music, wild and free. 

Sudden her notes fall hushed, and near 

Flutes breathe, horns warble, bridles ring — 

And in gay cavalcade, appear 

The Fairies round their Fairy King. 

Twelve hundred Elfin knights and more 
Were there, in silk and steel arrayed ; 

And each a ruby helmet wore, 

And each a diamond lance displayed. 



THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL. 

And pursuivants with wands of gold, 

And minstrels scarfed and laurelled fair, 

Heralds with blazoned flags unrolled, 
And trumpet- tuning dwarfs were there. 

Behind, twelve hundred ladies coy, 

On milk-white steeds, brought up their queen, 
Their kerchiefs of the crimson soy, 

Their kirtles all of Lincoln green. 

Some wore, in fanciful costume, 

A sapphire or a topaz crown ; 
And some a hern's or peacock's plume, 

Which their own tercel-gents struck down : 

And some wore masks, and some wore hoods, 
Some turbans rich, some ouches rare ; 

And some sweet woodbine from the woods, 
To bind their undulating hair. 

With all gay tints the darksome shade 

Grew florid as they passed along, 
And not a sound their bridles made 

But tuned itself to Elfin song. 

Their steeds they quit ; — the knights advance, 

And in quaint order, one by one, 
Each leads his lady forth to dance, — 

The timbrels sound — the charm 's begun. 

Where'er they trip, where'er they tread,* 

A daisy or a bluebell springs, 
And not a dew-drop shines o'erhead, 

But falls within their charmed rings. 

* " I serve the Fairy queen, 



385 



To draw her orbs upon the green. 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be, 
In their gold coats spots you see. 






386 



THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL. 

" The dance lead up, the dance lead down, 
The dance lead round our favourite tree ; 

If now one lady wears a frown, 
A false and froward shrew is she ! 

" There 's not a smile we Fays let fall 

But swells the tide of human bliss, 
And if good luck attends our call, 

'T is due on such sweet night as this : 

" The dance lead up, the dance lead down, 
The dance lead round our favourite tree ; 

If now even Oberon wears a frown, 
A false and froward churl is he ! " 

Thus sing the Fays ; — Lord Musgrave hears 
Their shrill sweet song, and eager eyes 

The radiant show, despite the fea rs 
That to his bounding bosom rise. 

But soft ! the minstrelsy declines ; 

The morrice ceases — sound the shaums! 
And quick, whilst many a taper shines, 

The heralds rank their airy swarms. 

Titania waves her crystal wand, — 

And underneath the green-wood bower, 

Tables, and urns, and goblets stand, 
Metheglin, nectar, fruit, and flower. 

" To banquet, ho ! " the seneschals 
Bid the brisk tribes, that, thick as bees 

At sound of cymbals, to their calls 
Consort beneath the leafy trees : 

I must go seek some dew-drops here, 
And hang a pearl in ev'ry cowslip's ear. 

* * * * 

The quaint mazes in the wanton green, 
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable." 

Midsummer Night's Dream.— Ed. 



THE LUCK OF EDEX-HALL. 

Titania by her king, each knight 

Beside his ladye love ; the page 
Behind his 'scutcheon'd lord, — a bright 

Equipment on a brilliant stage ! 

The monarch sits ; — all helms are doffed, 
Plumes, scarfs, and mantles cast aside, 

And, to the sound of music soft, 
They ply their cups with mickle pride. 

O'er sparkling mead, or spangling dew, 

Or livelier hyppocras they sip ; 
And strawberries red, and mulberries blue, 

Refresh each elf's luxurious lip. 

With " nod, and beck, and wreathed smile,'' 
They heap their jewelled patines high ; 

Nor want their mirthful airs the while, 
To crown the festive revelry. 

A minstrel dwarf, in silk arrayed, 
Lay on a mossy bank, o'er which 

The wild thyme wove its fragrant braid, 
The violet spread its perfume rich ; 

And whilst a page at Oberon's knee 

Presented high the wassail-cup, 
This lay the little bard with glee 

From harp of ivory offered up : 

" Health to our Sovereign! — fill, brave boy, 
Yon glorious goblet to the brim ! 

There 's joy — in every drop there 's joy 
That laughs within its charmed rim ! 

" 'T was wrought within a wizard's mould, 
When signs and spells had happiest power ; 

Health to our King by wood and wold ! 
Health to our Queen in hall and bower ! : ' 



387 



388 



THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL, 

They rise — the myriads rise, and shrill 
The wild-wood echoes to their brawl, — 

" Health to our King by wold and rill ! 
Health to our Queen in bower and hall ! " 

A sudden thought fires Musgrave's brain, — 
So help him all the Powers of Light, — 

He rushes to the festal train, 

And snatches up that goblet bright ! 

With three brave bounds the lawn he crossed, 
The fourth it seats him on his steed ; 

" Now, Courser ! or thy lord is lost — 
Stretch to the stream with lightning speed ! 

'T is uproar all around, behind, — 
Leaps to his selle each screaming Fay r 

" The charmed cup is fairly tined, 
Stretch to the strife, — away ! away !" 

As in a whirlwind forth they swept, 

The green turf trembling as they passed : 

But, forward still good Musgrave kept, — 
The shallow stream approaching fast. 

A thousand quivers round him rained 
Their shafts or ere he reached the shore ; 

But when the farther bank was gained, 
This song the passing whirlwind bore : 

" Joy to thy banner, bold Sir Knight ! 

But if yon goblet break or fall, 
Farewell thy vantage in the fight ! 

Farewell the luck of Eden-hall ! " 

The forest cleared, he winds his horn, — 
Rock, wood, and wave, return the din ; 

And soon, as though by Echo borne, 
His gallant Squires come pricking in. — 



THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL. 

'T is dusk of day ; — in Eden's towers 
A mother o'er her infant bends, 

And lists, amid the whispering bowers, 
The sound that from the stream ascends. 

It comes in murmurs up the stairs, 
A low, a sweet, a mellow voice, 

And charms away the lady's cares, 
And bids the mother's heart rejoice. 

" Sleep sweetly, babe ! " 't was heard to say 
" But if the goblet break or fall, 

Farewell thy vantage in the fray! 
Farewell the luck of Eden-hall! " — 

Though years on years have taken flight, 
Good-fortune 's still the Musgrave's thrall ; 

Hail to his vantage in the fight ! 
All hail the Luck of Eden-Hall I 



389 



THE PRINCE OF THE LAKE 



BY MISS A. M. PORTER. 



" The Princess Anne to her bower is gone, 

To watch, to weep, and pray ; 
Where the yellow moon, shining alone, 

Lights the traveller's way. 

" Her bower is high on that lonely hill, 

Where hoary ash trees shake ; 
And down below, sublimely still ! 

Lies Killarney's lake." 

— The warder ceased, and closed the gates, 
And the man that asked, rode on ; 

No more he said, but bowed his head, 
And heaved a heavy groan. 

The man was clad in a mantle red, 
And his bonnet was large and dark ; 

So, musing still, he gained the hill, 
The lady's bower to mark. 



THE PRINCE OF THE LAKE. 



391 



-T was black and drear ; the silent trees 

Stood tall and still around ; 
The long grass stirred not in the breeze ; 

The waters gave no sound ! 

But the Lady bright, on the battlement's height, 

He saw by the shining moon : 
From her locks so bright, and her garments white, 

The stranger knew her soon. 

" O, Lady Anne, thou must come down, — 

Thy husband sends by me ; 
Near the Cross of stone, on the heath alone. 

He lies, and waits for thee. 

" For the fight is o'er, and rebel power 

Hath vanquished its lord ; 
And now his store is nothing more 

Than only his good sword." 

" Now tell me, knight — by a warrior's might, 

I charge thee tell me true, — 
If from the fight, this woeful night, 

My love unhurt withdrew? — 

" Ah ! be my bed the leaves that are shed 

By autumn's hollow wind, 
If in his breast my head but rest, 

The sweetest sleep I '11 find." 

" He waits for thee," the knight replied, 
" By the mould'ring cross of stone : 

Thy sleep shall be sweet," the stranger sighed, 
" But never sweet alone. 

" Come, mount, thee here, — nay, do not fear 
Though the clouds be gathering fast, 

My courser 's swift, and his career 
Is like the ocean's blast." 



392 



THE PRINCE OF THE LAKE. 

They rode o'er hill, they rode o'er vale, 
They rode through the groaning wood ; 

Till, by the glare of the lightning pale, 
They saw the holy Rood : 

And near it lay a comely form, 

In dusky armour dress'd ; 
He lay in sleep, and the raging storm 

Could not break his rest. 

The warrior slept, and the lady stepped 

His well-known form to fold ; 
She kissed his brow, but the nightly snow 

Is not so icy cold. 

With piercing cries, she raised her eyes, 
And the Stranger stood by her side ; 

His mantle was gone, and his armour shone. 
And his gray plume floated wide. 

His steed was formed of the foaming surf, 

Which swells on Killarney's lake, 
When the furious blasts its waters casts, 

And rocking turrets shake ! 

" Behold thy Lord ! " the Phantom said, 

" The fight indeed is o'er; 
And under this shade my corse is laid, 

To sleep for evermore. 

" But thou must with me, — for the shoreless sea 

Must wash each earthly stain • 
And then this lake, appalled must quake, 

For its prince and hero slain. 

" Killarney's hills, and Killarney's caves, 

Our peaceful dwellings shall be, 
Till this yearly hour, when its shuddering waves 

My airy horse shall see. 



THE PRINCE OF THE LAKE. 

" Then in angry pomp through the waters wide, 

In lightning and thunder drest, 
Thy prince shall ride, while the stormy tide 

O'erwhelms his vassals' rest. 

" For three long days, and for three long nights, 

Must fear each bosom quail ; 
Till the whirlwinds cease, and all be peace, 

And their penitent tears prevail. 

" Then joy will be ours, the joy of Heaven, — 

To pardon and to save ; 
So let thy soul, to my fond prayer given, 

Smile at its path through the grave." 

He spoke ; and clasped his arms, to grasp 

The form of that lady fair ; 
She breathed a moan, and her Spirit alone 

Now wanders with his through the air. 



393 



THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG. 



BY FELICIA HEMANS. 



Supposed to be sung by Blondel, under the walls of a German 
castle, during his venturous search for his captive master, Richard 
Cceur de Lion, who, by singing the conclusion of the ballad, which 
had been one of his favourite compositions, discovered the place of 
his confinement to his generous follower, which proved the remote 
cause of his liberation. The anecdote is said to have its foundation 
in historical fact. The ballad, it is needless to add, is a modern 
)tation. 



Blondel. 

11 Thy hour is come^ and the stake is set!" 
The Soldan cried to the captive knight, 

" And the Sons of the Prophet in throngs are met, 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

" But be our faith by thy lips professed, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine ; 
Cast down the Red-Cross that marks thy vest, 

And life shall yet be thine." 



THE TROUBADOUR S SONG. 



395 



" I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood, 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright Cross through fire and flood. 

And think'st thou I fear to die ? 

" I have stood where thousands, by Salem's towers. 

Have fall'n for the Name divine ; 
And the faith that cheered their closing hours, 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus will thou die, in the pride of health, 
And the glow of youth's fresh bloom ! 

Thou art offered life, and pomp, and wealth ; 
Or torture and the tomb." 

" I have been where the crown of thorns was twined 

For our dying Saviour's brow ; 
He spurned the treasures that lure mankind, 

And I reject them now ! " 

" Art thou the son of a noble line, 

In a land that is fair and blest ? 
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! pine 

Again on its shores to rest? 

" Thine own is the choice — to hail once more 

The soil of thy father's birth ; 
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er. 

Forgotten, in foreign earth." 

" Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise, 

In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native skies, 

There 's a brighter clime above ! " 

The Bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope again, 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain : — 



396 



the troubadour s song. 

King Richard. 
" Are there none within thy father's hall, 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Y oung Christian ! left to deplore thy fall, 

With sorrow deep and vain ? " 

" There are hearts that have loved me through the past 

With holy love and true ; 
There are eyes, whose tears were streaming fast, 

When I bade my home adieu. 

" Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier, 

Than th' apostate's living stain ; — 
There 's a land where those who loved when here, 

Shall meet to love again." 



'Tis he ! thy Prince — long sought, long lost 

The leader of the Red-Cross host ! 
'T is he ! to none thy joy betray, 
Young Troubadour ! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave, 
The gem on the bosom of the wave ; 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil, 
To win their lion from the toil ; — 
And free the wassail-cup shall flow ; 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow ; 
The festal board shall be richly crowned, 
While knights, and chieftains banquet round ; 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, 
When merry England hails her King ! 

Historic Scenes. 



THE 

HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE 



BY W. WORDSWORTH. 



When the Brothers reached the gateway, 

Eustace pointed with his lance 
To the Horn which there was hanging — 

Horn of the Inheritance. 
Horn it was, which none could sound, 
No one upon living ground, 
Save he who came as rightful heir 
To Egremont's domains and castle fair. 

Heirs from ages, without record, 

Had the House of Lucie born, 
Who of right had claimed the lordship 

By the proof upon the Horn. 
Each, at the appointed hour, 
Tried the Horn — it owned his power; 
He was acknowledged — and the blast 
Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last. 



398 



THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, 

And to Hubert thus said he — 
" What I speak this Horn shall witness, 

For thy better memory. 
Hear then, and neglect me not ! 
At this time, and on this spot, 
The words are uttered from my heart, 
As my last earnest prayer ere we depart. 

" On good service we are going, 

Life to risk by sea and land, 
In which course if Christ our Saviour 

Do my sinful soul demand, 
Hither come thou back straightway, 
Hubert, if alive that day, 
Return and sound the Horn, that we 
May have a living house still left in thee." 

" Fear not ! " quickly answered Hubert, 

" As I am thy father's son, 
What thou askest, noble brother ! 

With God's favour, shall be done." 
So were both right well content ; 
From the castle forth they went, 
And, at the head of their array, 
To Palestine the brothers took their way. 

Side by side they fought (the Lucies 

Were a line for valour famed), 
And, where'er their strokes alighted, 

There the Saracens were tamed. 
Whence, then, could it come- — the thought? 
By what evil spirit brought? — 
Oh ! can a brave man wish to take 
His brother's life, for lands and castle's sake ? 



THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 

" Sir," the ruffians said to Hubert, 

" Deep lie lies in Jordan flood." — 
Stricken by this ill assurance, 

Pale and trembling Hubert stood : — 
" Take your earnings; — Oh ! that I 
Could have seen my brother die ! " 
It was a pang that vexed him then, 
And oft returned, again, and yet again ! 

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace ! 

Nor of him were tidings heard ; 
Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer 

Back again to England steered. 
To his castle Hubert sped — 
He has nothing now to dread ; 
But silent, and by stealth lie came, 
And at an hour which nobody could name. 

None could tell if it were night-time — 

Night or day — at even or morn ; 
For the sound was heard by no one 

Of the Proclamation-Horn. 
But bold Hubert lives in glee — 
Months and years went smilingly ; 
With plenty was his table spread, 
And bright the lady is, who shares his bed. 

Likewise he had sons and daughters , 

And, as good men do, he sate 
At his board, by these surrounded, 

Flourishing, in fair estate ; 
And while thus in open day 
Once he sate, as old books say, 
A blast was uttered from the Horn, 
Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn. 



399 



400 



THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 

'T is the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 

He is come to claim his right ; — 
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains, 

Hear the challenge with delight ! 
" Hubert ! though the blast be blown, 
He is helpless and alone — ■ 
Thou hast a dungeon — speak the word! 
And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord.' 

Speak ! — astounded Hubert cannot, 

And if power to speak he had, 
All are daunted — all the household, 

Smitten to the heart, and sad. — 
'T is Sir Eustace ! — if it be 
Living man, it must be he ! 
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 
And by a postern-gate he slunk away. 

Long, and long, was he unheard of; 

To his brother then he came — 
Made confession — asked forgiveness, — 

Asked it by a brother's name, 
And by all the saints in Heaven ; 
And of Eustace was forgiven : 
Then in a convent went to hide 
His melancholy head, and there he died ! 

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 
Had preserved from murderers' hands, 

And from Pagan chains had rescued, 
Liv'd with honour on his lands. 

Sons he had ; saw sons of theirs. — 

And through ages, heirs of heirs 

A long posterity renown'd, 

Sounded the Horn, which they alone could sound. 



ELLEN IRWIN ; 

®r, €i)t ftvatS of Btrtte. * 

BY W. WORDSWORTH, 



Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
Upon the braes of Kirtle, 
Was lovely as a Grecian maid 
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle. 
Young Adam Brace beside her lay ; 
And there they did beguile the day 
With love and gentle speeches, 
Beneath the budding beeches. 

From many knights and many 'squires. 

The Brace had been selected ; 

And Gordon, fairest of them all, 

By Ellen was rejected. 

Sad tidings to that noble youth ! 

For it may be proclaimed with truth, — 

If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 

That Gordon loves us dearly. 

But what is Gordon's beauteous face. 
And what are Gordon's crosses, 
To them who sit by Kirtles' braes, 
Upon the verdant mosses ? 
Alas ! that ever he was born ! — 
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
Sees them and their caressing ; 
Beholds them blest and blessing. 

* A river in the southern part of Scotland. 



402 



ELLEN IRWIN. 

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts 
That through his brain are traveling, — 
And, starting up, to Brace's heart 
He launched a deadly javelin ! 
Fair Ellen saw it when it came, 
And stepping forth to meet the same, 
Did with her body cover 
The youth, her chosen lover ! 

And, falling into Brace's arms, 
Thus died the beauteous Ellen, — 
Thus, from the heart of her True-Love, 
The mortal spear repelling. 
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain, 
And fought with rage incessant, 
Against the Moorish Crescent. 

But many days, and many months, 
And many years ensuing, 
This wretched knight did vainly seek 
The death that he was wooing : 
So coming his last help to crave, 
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
His body he extended, 
And there his sorrow ended. 

Now ye, who willingly have heard 
The tale I have been telling, 
May in Kirkonnel church-yard view 
The grave of lovely Ellen : 
By Ellen's side the Brace is laid ; 
And, for the stone upon his head, 
May no rude hand deface it, 
And its forlorn hic jacet ! 



THE INCHCAPE BELL. 



BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



[1802.] 



' By east the Isle of May, twelve miles from all land, in the 
German seas, lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very 
dangerous for navigators, because it is overflowed everie tide. It is 
reported in old times, upon the saide rock there was a Bell, fixed 
upon a tree or timber, which rang continually, being moved by the 
sea, giving notice to the saylers of the danger. This Bell or clocke 
was put and maintained there by the Abbot of Aberbrothok ; and 
being taken down by a sea-pirate, a year thereafter he perished upon 
the same rocke, with ship and goodes, in the righteous judgement of 
God." — " A Brief Description of Scotland, §c. By J. M. 1633." 
S. 



No stir in the Air, no stir in the Sea ; 

as 
The Ship was A still as she could be ; 

Her sails from heaven received no motion. 

Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 



404 



THE INCHCAPE BELL. 

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; 
On a buoy, in the storm, it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the surge's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay, 

All things were joyful on that day ; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, 

And there was joyaunce in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, 
And fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of Spring, — 
It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
His heart was mirthful to excess, 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape Float ; ' 
Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I '11 plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float. 

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound, 

The bubbles rose and burst around ; 

Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock, 

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 



THE INCHCAPE BELL. 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, 
He scoured the sea for many a day ; 
And now grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
They cannot see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day, 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 
So dark it is, they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon ; 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

" Can'st hear," said one, " the breakers roar? 
For methinks we should be near the shore ; 
Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell." 

They hear no sound — the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind has fallen, they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes, with a shivering shock, - 
" O Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock ! " 

The Rover raved and tore his hair, 
And cursed himself in his despair : 
The waves rush in on every side, 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide ! 

But, even in his dying fear, 
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear ; 
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 
The Demon beneath was ringing his knell ! 



405 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 



BY ROBERT SOXJTHEY. 



[1798.] 



" I know not whether it be worth the reporting, that there is in 
Cornwallj near the parish of St. Neot's, a well, arched over with 
the robes of four kinds of trees, — withy, oak, elm, and ash, — 
dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, 
that whether husband or wife come first to drink thereof, they get the 
mastery thereby." — Fuller. 

St. Keyne, the legendary patroness of this talismanic stream, who 
was styled, in the ancient British language, Keyn-wiri, — i. e., Keyn 
the Virgin, — was the daughter of Brachanus, or Brychan, Prince 
of the country of Garthmatrin, in Wales, which, from him, was 
afterwards called Brecknock. She died A.D. 490. — S. 



A well there is, in the West Country, 
And a clearer one never was seen ; 

There is not a Wife in the west country, 
But has heard of the well of St Keyne. 



An oak and an elm tree stand beside, 
And behind does an ash tree grow, 

And a willow from the bank above 
Droops to the water below. 



407 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 

Joyfully he drew nigh ; 
For from cock-crow he had he en travelling, 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear, 

For thirsty and hot was he ; 
And he sat down upon the bank, 

Under the willow-tree. 

There came a man from the neighbouring town, 

At the Well to fill his pail ; 
On the Well-side he rested it, 

And he bade the stranger hail ! 

" Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ? " quoth he, 

For, an' if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 

That ever thou didst in thy life. 

" Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, 

Ever here in Cornwall been ; 
For an' if she have, I '11 venture my life 

She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." 

" I have left a good woman, who never was here," 

The stranger he made reply ; 
But that my draught should be the better for that, 

I pray you answer me why." 

" St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, " many a time 

Drank of this crystal well, 
And before the angel summoned her, 

She laid on the water a spell. 

" If the husband of this gifted Well 
Shall drink before his wife, 



408 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

A happy man henceforth is he, 
For he shall be master for life ! 

" But if the wife should drink of it first, 

God help the husband then ! " 
The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes?" 

He to the Cornishman said ; 
But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, 

And sheepishly shook his head. 

" I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, 

And left my wife in the porch ; 
But i' faith she had been wiser than me, 

For she took a bottle to church ! " 



MAY- DAY PAGEANT 

IN 

&*)£ ffiifttmff) €tntux#. 

BY THE LATE JOSEPH STRUTT.* 



Palmer — (To the Women). 
Fair damsels ! say, what brings you here ? 

Damsels. 
To celebrate the first of May. 

Palmer. 
Wherefore this day to you so dear? 

Damsels. 
It is bold Robin's wedding day. 

Chorus. 
With sprightly dance and carols gay, 
We welcome Robin's wedding day ! 

Palmer — (To the Men). 
Why stand the bowmen on a row ? 

Men. 
Prepared to play a skilful game. 

Palmer. 
Some Saint to honour 'tis, I trow, 

Men. 
'T is Robin Hood, for that 's his name. 

Chorus. 
With sprightly dance and carols gay, 
We keep bold Robin's wedding day ! 

* A celebrated antiquary ; and author of several works on the ancicni 
sports, dresses, and domestic manners of the English. 
T 



410 MAY-DAY PAGEANT. 

Palmer. 
But who is she, so fair, bedight 
In tunic blue, and rochet white? 

Woman. 
Dost thou not know her, holy man ? 
It is the blithe Maid Marian. 

Palmer. 
How name ye him y'clad in green, 
With party hose and fringes sheen ? 

Man. 
It is the prince of archers good : 
And he is hight bold Robin Hood. * 

Chorus. 
With merry carol, dance, and play, 
We welcome Robin's wedding day ; 

* The dress of the two principal actors in the pageant, is thus described by 
Strutt, from high authorities. 

Robin Hood, — a bright grass-green tunic, fringed with gold ; his hood and 
his hosen were parti-coloured, blue and white; he had a large garland of 
rose-buds on his head, a bow bent in his hand ; a sheaf of arrows at his gir- 
dle, and a bugle-horn depending from a baldrick of light blue tarantine (a 
kind of silken stuff), embroidered with silver; he had also a sword and a 
dagger, the hilts of both being richly embossed with gold. 

Maid Marian was preceded by two maidens, in orange-coloured kirtles, 
with white courtpies (short vests), strewing flowers. She was attired in a 
watchet-coloured tunic, reaching to the ground; over which she wore a 
white linen rochet, with loose sleeves, fringed with silver, and very neatly 
plaited; her girdle was of silver baudekin (a cloth of gold or silver tissue, 
with figures in silk), fastened with a double bow on the left side ; her long 
flaxen hair was divided into many ringlets, and flowed upon her shoulders; 
the top part of her head was covered with a net-work caul of gold, upon 
which was placed a garland of silver, ornamented with blue violets. She 
was supported by two bride-maidens, in sky- coloured rochets, girt with 
crimson girdles, wearing garlands upon their heads, of blue and white violets ; 
after them, four others, in green courtpies, and garlands of violets and 
cowslips, &c. 

The tunic was a gown or habit, in the modern acceptation. The rochet, 
worn over it, was a loose flowing gown of lawn, very similar to a surplice, 
but having the large sleeves gathered at the wrist : the latter was also some- 
times incongruously termed a rochet, until the middle or latter end of the 
seventeenth century. 



may-day pageant. 

Palmer. 
I am a stranger, well ye wot, 

And much have travelled : I did view 
The Lord's Sepulchre, and the Grot 

Where he was born of maiden true. 

The shells of Cales, in sign of grace, 
Adorn my hat ; — and you may see 

A vernicle,* with His dear face 
Impressed, who died on Calvary. 

Upon my cloak, Saint Peter's Keys 

Were drawn at Rome, with crosses wide ; 

And relics from beyond the seas 
I bear, — or woe may me betide ! 

The snow-topped hills of Armony, 
Where Noah's Ark may now be found, 

I 've seen ; — in sooth, I do not lie ; — 
Told o'er my beads and kissed the ground. 

At Walsingham, my vows I 've paid ; 

At Waltham eke, and Coloraine ; 
And to Saint Thomas I have prayed, 

Who near the Holy Rood was slain. 

But, tell me, to what saint, I pray, 
What martyr, or what angel bright, 

To dedicate this holy day, 

That brings you here so gaily dight ? 

This calendar I 've searched with care, 
For saints y'blessed and angels good ; 

The holy saints are named there, — 
But no such saint as Robin Hood. 

* Handkerchief. 



411 



412 



may-day pageant. 

Men. 
Dost thou not, simple Palmer, know — 

What every child can tell thee here, — 
Nor saint nor angel claims this show, 

But the bright season of the year ? 

Women. 
The cowslips now adorn the dells ; 

On sunny banks primroses blow, 
With violets sweet and dainty bells ; 

And on the green the daisies grow ; — 

The birds in warbling chorus sing, 
In hedge and grove and shady wood, 

Inviting us to hail the Spring, 

And join the troop of Robin Hood. 

Chorus. 
With merry carol, dance, and play, 
We welcome Robin's wedding day I 



HUNTING SONG. 



Bl' THE SAME. 



Waxen, lords and ladies gay '. 

On the mountain dawns the day, 

All the jolly chase is here, 

With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear ; 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling ; 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay ! " 

Waken lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain gray ; 

Springlets in the dawn are streaming, 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ; 

And foresters have busy been, 

To track the buck in thicket green ; — 

Now we come to chaunt our lay, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay ! " 

Waken, lords and ladies gay 

To the green-wood haste away ; 

We can shew you where he lies, 

Fleet of foot, and tall of size, 

We can shew the marks he made, 

When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed; — 

You shall see him brought to bay ; 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay ! " 

Louder, louder, chaunt the lay, — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay ! " — 
Tell them, youth and mirth and glee, 
Run a course as well as we ; 
Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, — 
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; 
Think of this, and rise with day, 
Gentle lords and ladies gay ! 



A LEGEND OF CHARITY. 



BY THE SAME. 



" Who calls?" — "A stranger, passing by, 

Benighted, weary, and astray ; 
He asks relief for charity, 

And shelter till return of day." 

" What help, in such a woeful shed, 
Canst thou expect so late to find? 

The night is cold, and I 'm in bed ; 
To wake me, stranger, was unkind." 

" Forlorn and fainting, here I lie ; 

A fellow-creature's claim I make : 
Permit me not for want to die, 

But help ! some help, for mercy's sake ! " 

" Hold on your way, and you shall find 
A wealthy Lordling's open gate. 

Go, friend ; and be your welcome kind ; — 
He banquets oft, and revels late." 

" Must I then perish at thy door? '' — 

" Not so — the rich man's board is spread. 

Alas ! he spurneth hence the poor, 
And I have but one crust of bread ; 

" Of barley bread, full coarse and stale ; 

My children's breakfast that, and mine : 
Cheese I have none, nor beer, nor ale, 

Nor bacon-hock, nor flesh of kine." 



LEGEND OF CHARITY. 

" One crust is all that I require, 

For dainty cates are not my due ; — 

'Tis cold and wet; — a little fire 

Permit, and saints shall comfort you." 

" May woe betide the churlish wight, 
Whose ruthless heart no pity knows ! 

I will arise, the fire I '11 light ; — 

Come in, for chill the north gale blows. 

" See here ; 't is all the bread I 've got." 
" Enough ! enough ! I ask no more : 

Hereafter be thy labours less ; 

May favouring saints increase thy store ! ' 

" Holy Saint Thomas, — is it true ! 

The scraps of bread both stale and small, 
Have loaves become, full large and new ; 

The pitcher foams with mantling ale ! — 

" The fire, too, blazes high and free, 
Yet small of wood is its supply ; 

Nor aught consumed it seems to be, 
Although the boughs be old and dry ! 

" Thou art no beggar ! but, I ween, 
Some fairy elf, or favouring sprite ; 

Or, in disguise, some angel sheen, 
Descended from the realms of light !" 

" Inquire no further — where I dwell, 
Nor who I am. For thee to know 

Let it suffice, thou hast done well, 
And I my blessing will bestow. 

" Good health shall make thy labours light, 
And plenty at thy board attend ; 

Stern death shall not thy soul affright, 
For Charity shall thee befriend." 



415 



ST. JOHN'S EVE IN PALESTINE : * 

& JUsoitf at ifyz Crugatetf 

]N THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. 



I cannot tell ye, in sooth, from where 
That maiden came, with her golden hair, 
And her snowy brow ; but I say to ye, 
She was fairer than aught in Christentie ! 

I cannot tell ye that maiden's name, — 
I cannot tell ye from whence she came ; 
But from her kirtle's gold broidery, 
I should say, she was damsel of high degree. 

And onward she glides, in the still moon-light, 
Seeking the tower of her captive knight ; 
She standeth beneath, and she lifteth her veil, 
And her voice sounds sweet as the nightingale. 

" Rise up, Sir Guy ! arise at my call, — 
I have left my bower and my castle hall ; 
For goodly tidings I bring to thee, — 
Ere morning, I'll die or set thee free." 

" Alas ! " quoth Sir Guy, " thou fair lady, 
If sorrow or harm should chance to thee, 
How shall I again take lance in hand, — 
How shall I again see merry England! " 

" O, fear not for me, thou gentle knight ! 
The spell must be won ere morning's light, — 
*T is a mighty spell ; but my knight I'll win 
From the chains of the haughty Sarrazin." 

* From a very ingenious and beautiful work, entitled "London in the 
Olden Time," Second Series. 1827. 



ST. JOHN S EVE. 



41 



Sore mourned Sir Guy, as that maiden went, — 

Alas ! he was close in donjon pent ; 

Else he had followed her steadfastly, 

That she might not for him be in jeopardy. 

'T is the mystic eve of Saint John, I ween, — 
On Jordan's bank is that maiden seen ; 
And a golden cross on her breast she weareth, — 
And a chalice of gold, in her hand she beareth. 

For spirits and demons are flitting about, 
And goblins grim-shaped, an horrible route ; 
While Hecat and Lady Benzoria prepare 
To mount with Hera, the Queen of the Air. 

For she who shall first dip her hand in the stream, 
When the full-moon at midnight sheddeth her beam, 
Shall govern all sprites till the shadows flee, 
And whatever she wisheth, granted shall be. 

I would ye had seen how that maiden stood, 
Lofty of brow, and fearless of mood ; 
Looking to Heaven, with many a prayer 
To shield her from fiends of the midnight air. 

The hour's at hand, — the moon 's at her height, — 
Up, maiden ! nor fear thee nor goblin nor sprite ; 
Thou art sained with water and rites divine ; 
On thy bosom thou bearest the holy sign ! 

There is shriek — there is shout — there is death-like cry : 
But the maiden hath rushed all reckless by ; 
She stands in the stream, 'mid goblins fell, — 
An angel girt round by the fiends of hell ! 

Joy to thee, maiden ! the spell is won 
Haste with thy cup, ere the morning sun 
Shall gleam o'er the mountains; the water thou holdest 
Will govern all fiends, and appal the boldest. 
t 2 



418 



ST. JOHN S EVE, 



Joy to thee, maiden ! — look not behind ; — 
Heed not the shouts that are borne on the wind ; 
Mount yon goblin-steed, — he dareth not harm thee ; 
While thou bearest that cup, there shall nought alarm thee. 

The steed flieth swiftly : the bolts of the keep 
Start back, for the warders are locked in sleep ; 
Sir Guy springeth forth ; — his chains have unbound, 
As that mystic water is sprinkled around. 

And onward, and onward — ay ! onward they fly, 
O'er hill, vale, and flood, while the moon rides high ; 
And still holds the maiden the cross to her breast ; 
And still is that chalice with firm hand prest. 

Haste, haste ye ! speed on, while the moon is yet bright ; 
Your steed must evanish at dawn of light : 
Still, still grasp the chalice ! nor heed the fierce rout 
Of goblins who follow with yell and with shout. 

The gale of the morning breathes fresh and chill ; 
There 's a streak of faint light on Hermon's hill ; — 
One bound, — they have crossed the rushing river ; 
The steed and the fiends are evanished for ever ! 

O, joy to thee, maiden ! look up and see, 
The towers of Acre are smiling on thee ; 
Our holiest sign in the sun-beam is glowing, 
And the red-cross banner above thee flowing. 

And, joy to thee, maiden ! look down and behold 
What gleameth so bright in thy chalice of gold : 
There is topaz, and ruby, and every gem, 
That can garnish a Soldan's diadem. 

Yes, joy to thee, maiden ! thy task is done ; 
Yes, joy to thee, maiden ! thy knight is won ; 
And that fearful adventure achieved by thee, 
Shall be sung in each hall throughout Christentie. 



ELLA. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



" Firmin ! on the rocky height ; 

Firmin ! o'er the sea, — 
The voice of war, through the dead of night, 

Comes it not, O chief ! to thee ? 

" For the peaceful chime of the midnight time, 
Peal the bells from the Minster-tower ; 

In thundering sweep o'er the land and the deep, 
The notes of danger's hour. 

" The banners float fair on the forest air, 

Near thy proud ancestral hall ; 
The cymbals clash high, and the trumpets loud reply, 

Heed'st not their airy call? " 

I reck not — I, — for Ella sleeps 

Beneath the lowly sod ; 
And there my heart unbodied keeps, 

Its still and fixed abode. 

Full twenty years in Ella's name, 

I led my feudal powers ; 
And oft my silver Star of fame 

Hath waved o'er hostile towers. 



420 



" When the Lilies pale, shrunk with tearful wail 

From the Lion and the Rood, 
My fealty clear, and faith sincere, 

I oft have sealed in blood. 

Where the burning rocks of the Desart shine 

I 've urged my knightly quest ; 
And the palm-trees fair, in Palestine, 

Have fann'd my limbs to rest. 

The crest of many a Paynim knight, 

Hath decked my Ella's store ; 
Oft has she smiled, with looks of light, 

As she has viewed them o'er. 

But now, to long-remembered arms 

I give no joyous hour ; 
For me no petty feud has charms — 

No feudal trumpet, power. 

" Then, wilt thou sleep in dreaming sloth, 

Thy days of sorrow here ? 
Must thy Christian faith, and thy knightly oath, 

Lie crush'd in ruins drear ? 

" Will the wife of thy soul, in joy look down 

On a grief so wild and vain ? 
Or thus dost thou seek thy wishes' crown 

Of an union with her again ? " 

No ! — yet, ev'n yet, for Ella's love, 

I '11 mighty deeds essay ; 
Those nobler feats of worth I '11 prove, 

That lead to Heaven the way." 

My opening buds, so sweet and fair, 

I '11 first secure amain ; 
Good Clement holds that tender care, 

In Ina's holy fane. 



421 



In arms full clad, an Errant Knight, 
I '11 roam o'er hills and seas, 

Restoring to the wrong'd, their right, 
And to the afflicted, ease. 

I '11 'venge the cause of orphans poor, 
I '11 crush the tyrants down ; 

I '11 raise the meek, that pensive cow'r 
Beneath a dastard's frown. 

Once more, shall Ella's Chief have place 

In many a minstrel's song ; 
And all the fruits his name that grace, 

To Ella's love belong. 

The bounteous store my Ella gave, 
With hand unchecked, I '11 spread ; 

The worthy, from distress to save — 
To cheer the wretched's bed. 

Last — when dissolving Age shall come, 

To set my spirit free, 
I '11 take the cross to Salem's dome, 

A palmer o'er the sea. 

There, humbly laid at Christ's lov'd feet, 

With him I '11 trust to rise ! 
With smiles of dawning joy I '11 meet 

My Ella in the skies ! " 



THE BOY OF EGREMOND 



BY SAMUEL ROGERS. 



This accident, which has attained a surprising celebrity for a private 
and domestic event, occurred about the middle of the twelfth cen- 
tury ; previous to which, William Fitz-Duncan Romilly, the father, 
had laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword, and was 
afterwards established in the possession of them, by his uncle, 
David I., King of Scotland. 

Bolton Strid is a fall of the Wharf, from the top of a lofty and steep 
rock, into Wharfdale. The chasm at the brink is not more than 
between two and three yards across ; but at the time the Heir of 
Egremond took the leap, he held a greyhound in a leash, which, 
starting back, pulled him into the torrent, and he was dashed down 
the precipice, of course meeting with instant death. The Falconer's 
question, and the Lady Aaliza's answer (in the original terms), 
are still proverbially current in the neighbourhood. 

A priory, which formerly stood at Embsay, was, at this time, 
removed to Bolton, to be near the spot of the accident, and as some 
solace to the afflicted mother. The conventual Church, of the early 
Gothic architecture, remains to this day, — a grand and picturesque 
ornament of the vale, which is considered to be one of the most 
beautiful spots in England. The choir and transepts are in ruins ; 
the nave is entire, and is used as a parish church. 

The poet Wordsworth has written a ballad on the same subject j 
and has also illustrated this neighbourhood, in his " White Doe of 
Ry Is tone." — Ed. 



" Say, what remains when hope is fled ? ! 

She answered, " Endless weeping ! 
For, in the herds-man's eye she read, 

Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 



THE BOY OF EGREMOND. 423 

At Embsay rung the matin-bell,* 
The stag was roused on Barden-fell; 
The mingled sounds were swelling — dying, 
And down the Wharf a hern was flying ; 
When, near the cabin in the wood, 

In tartan clad and forest-green, 
WJh. hound in leash and hawk in hood, 

The boy of Egremond was seen. 
Blithe was his song — a song of yore ; 

But where the rock is rent in' two, 

And the river rushes through, 
His voice was heard no more ! 
'T was but a step ! the gulf he passed ; 
But that step — it was his last ! 
As through the mist he winged his way, 
(A cloud that hovers night and day) 
The hound hung back, and back he drew 
The master, and his merlin too. 
That narrow place of noise and strife, 
Received their little all of life ! 

There, now the matin-bell is rung ; 
The " Miserere ! " duly sung ; 
And holy men in cowl and hood, 
Are wandering up and down the wood. 
But what avail they ? Ruthless Lord, 
Thou did'st not shudder when the sword 
Here on the young its fury spent, 
The helpless and the innocent ! 
Sit now and answer groan for groan ; 
The child before thee is thy own — 
And she who wildly wanders there, 
The mother, in her long despair, 

* Mr. Wordsworth's ballad mentions an additional aggravation of the 
calamity of this fatal morn ; viz., that it was the day previous to the 
intended nuptials of the young heir. 



424 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 



Shall oft remind thee, waking — sleeping, 
Of those who by the Wharf were weeping, — 
Of those who would not be consoled, 
When red with blood the river rolled. 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 



BY MISS A. M. PORTER. 



The moon was bright, the sky serene, 

And the waters softly crept ; 
And trees were thick on the bank so green, 

Where the Knight of Malta slept. 

Beside him grazed his milk-white steed, 

And beside him lay his spear ; 
While his raven locks, from the helmet freed, 

Were wet with many a tear. 

His cheek was once like the orange red, 

But now like the olive pale ; 
And his heart, that erst with pity bled, 

Now heaves through pitiless mail. 

Was never a lord in Alphonso's court, 
That danced like him at the ball ; 

'Mid nobles gay, at each graceful sport, 
Don Carlos eclipsed them all. 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 



425 



Was never a minstrel like him could sing, 

Or tinkle the sweet guitar ; 
Was never a knight at tilt or ring, 

So brave in the Tourney's war. 

Was never a brother like him so blest, 

In brother's dear rivalry ; 
For the twin he clasped to his faithful breast, 

Was gallant and true as he. 

O look you now, how a pleasant dream 

That brother to life restores ; 
How bright is the glow which raptures beam, 

O'er the face of Carlos pours.* 

He dreams they sail in their yacht so gay, 

By gentle light of the stars ; 
Where through bowery banks flows Duero away, 

To the sound of their soft guitars. 

days of Youth ! days of Joy ! 

Will ye ever again return ? 
Can the penitent heart or the streaming eye, 

Give life to the death-cold urn ! 

Now sudden he wakes, and with blissful glance, 

Looks round for that form so dear ; 
But vanished the image with fancy's trance, 

And all is solitude drear. 

The groan that riveth his manly heart, 

As comfort and hope remove, 
With its dismal sound makes echo start, 

And scareth the lone wood-dove. 

* Of the happy effect on the mind, of the return of early recollections and 
associations, the Welch bards, or sages, have left on record a striking 
aphorism. 

" Three things restored will prolong a man's life: — The country where in 
childhood he was brought up ; — The food that in childhood nourished him ; — 
The train of thought that in childhood amused him." — Ed. 



426 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 

He beats his breast, and lie lifts his eyes, 
Whence tears like the rain-drops fall ; 

And loud his wild and sorrowful cries 
On Jesu for mercy call. 

" Who mourneth here, this smiling night, 
When nature and man should sing ; 

Doth a sinner's voice mine ear affright, 
Or grief with its murmuring ? 

" O, whether by sin or sorrow driven 

To scenes of holy peace ; 
Let them teach thee, my son, the road to Heaven, 

And thy earthly cares will cease." 

The Hermit stood among evergreen boughs, 

That curtained a cavern wide, 
Whence he called the knight to bless'd repose, 

In his saintly solitude. 

He led the way, that knight before, 

With many a stifled sigh, 
Then gently dropped his leafy door, 

And shut out the cheerful sky. 

But the soft, pale moon, with tender light, 
Streamed through the branching space, 

And glimmering faint on the cavern's night, 
Diffused a soothing grace. 

The Hermit's couch was a heap of moss, 
From neighbouring mountains torn ; 

And the rocky step of his wooden Cross, 
With kneeling, and tears, was worn. 

O, soothing it is to the sad, sad heart, 

Some mournful tokens to see, 
When its load of grief it would fain impart — 

When it longeth for sympathy '• 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 



427 



Don Carlos' pulse beat calmly now, 

As he saw the hermit's throb ; 
And the death-damps left his tortured brow, 

When he heard the hermit sob. 

The good man knelt, and inly prayed, 

And long at a distance kept ; 
And low at the foot of the Crucifix laid, 

With smothered anguish wept. 

He covered his face with his dark-gray hood, 

Like one who repenteth sore ; 
And still, as he kissed the holy Rood, 

He wept and he groaned the more. 

" Oh ! I have suffered !" at length he cried, 
As back to the knight he came : 

" For soul in grief, what fitter guide 
Than he that hath felt the same ? 

" Then confess thy sin, or tell thy grief, 
And if Christian love may save, 

Ah ! look at least for that faint relief, 
Which shriving penitents have." 

" O father, father ! deep is my guilt, 
But deeper, sure, are my pains ; 

For innocent blood, in fury spilt, 
What pardon, — what hope remains ? 

" Yet time there was, when of bird or deer 
I shuddered to end the breath ; 

And ever beheld, with womanish tear, 
E'en childhood's easy death. 

" And time there was, when glory in vain 
Called, on his murderous throne ; 

The wreath that grows on a hill of slain, 
My brows abhorred to own. 



428 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 



" But see me here, to holy St. John * 

Self-vowed his knight to be, 
And sworn fair woman's love to shun, 

In stainless chastity. 

" And see me here, self-doomed to aid 

(O penance sad and right !) 
With this guilty arm, and this fatal blade, 

Each suffering lady, or knight." 

Don Carlos paused, and with ghastly look 

Regarded his guilty brand ; 
His brow grew damp, and his cold limbs shook, 

And the weapon left his hand. — 

* The original and proper title of the Knights of Malta, was, " Sancti 
Ioannis Hierosolymitani," of Saint John of Jerusalem. They were 
also called " Hospitallers " and " Johannites." The Crusaders gave them 
several towns, the principal of which was Acre. In the year 119], they 
removed to Cyprus ; and in 1308, to Rhodes, which they held for upwards 
of two hundred years ; but, after a most gallant defence, being obliged by 
the] Turks to relinquish it, the Emperor Charles V. gave them the island of 
Malta, which they maintained for three hundred years against all attacks, 
and fortified, so as to render it impregnable. In this situation, they were 
considered as the principal bulwark of Christendom against the Infidels. 

They wore a black robe, and a Cross Patonce, of gold enamelled with 
white, on the left shoulder. This order partook of the defects of the period 
in which it originally flourished ; but was yet, in many respects, one of the 
most noble and unexceptionable of the chivalrous institutions. Its energies 
were, collectively, of great service to Europe ; and every individual member 
was obliged to fulfil his vow of Knighthood, according to the custom of 
the age, by redressing all wrongs within the sphere of his private influence. 
They also distributed large sums in charity. The number of Knights was 
never less than one thousand ; of whom, five hundred were supposed to be 
resident on the Island. Each Knight, before admission, was obliged to prove 
nobility of descent, on both father's and mother's side, for four generations. 
This rendered it one of the highest orders in Europe ; the Grand Master 
ranking with Sovereign princes, and the Grand Prior in England sitting as 
an Earl in the House of Peers, before the Reformation. The last Lord Prior 
in England, and also the last surviving Knight of the English Commandery, 
was Sir Thomas Docwra, of Lilley, Herts., who, in the year 1508, erected, 
at his own charge, one of the City Gates of London, viz. St. John's, Clerk- 
enwell, on which his name and arms were lately to be seen.— Ed. 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 



429 



" 'T was in gay Castille, that an orphan heir, 
With the twin of my life as my love, 

I dwelt in joy ; — ah me ! his prayer 
Now breathes for my sake above. 

" The lily that shines through yon watery glass 

Is dark to his mortal part ; 
And foul is its sweetest breath, alas ! 

To the sweetness of his heart. 

" Together we roved through our wild-wood bowers 

In sportive or pensive mood, 
Or o'er learning's page, in studious hours, 

Together were wont to brood. 

" Was never a thought in either's mind, 

Nor a feeling in his breast, 
But the other's soul, untaught, defined, 

And the other's eye expressed. 

" If Juan had chid, not prince's praise 

Had banished the blush of shame ; 
If Juan approved, a world might raise, 

Unheard, the voice of blame ! 

" Not beauty's sweet glance, like his, could light 

My spirit to Honour's goal ; 
O, woe was the day, when at beauty's sight, 

I yielded my captive soul ! 

" Why should I talk of the lily and rose 

That in Inis' cheek were blent ; 
Of her dark eyes' stars, and her bosom's snows, 

And her smile's soft languishment ? 

" O, she was fairer than earthly thing, 

Which Heaven for good ordains ; 
Such wondrous charms the demons bring, 

To forge some wretch's chains. 



430 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 

" With ardour wooed, and with transport won, 

She heard at length my prayer ; 
And my blissful life seemed new begun, 

When I clasped the bridal fair. 

" Yet Juan was far, in green Navarre, 

On embassy secret and grave, 
And knew not her by whose conquering car 

His brother was led a slave. 

" When home returned, approving joy 

Spoke from his smiling face ; 
And Inis beheld, with sparkling eye, 

His figure's youthful grace. 

" 'T was sweet to my heart to hear her speak, 

With voice of the cooing dove, 
Of his azure eyes and his vermeil cheek, 

And shape like the God of Love. 

" But sweeter the theme, when, with graver speech, 

She spoke of his virtues high ; 
Of his towering mind's celestial reach, 

And his awful purity. 

" Ah ! soon did she cease with Juan's praise 

To fetter my list'ning ear ; 
Oft silent and sad, from my 'rapt eyes' gaze, 

She turned with a starting tear. 

" Let me not dwell on the dark deceit 

That hath plunged my soul in sin ; 
For how should my faultering lips repeat 

What I dare not breathe within ? 

" Enough, that she swore, — could I doubt her oath, 

Who dwelt in my inmost thought ? 
That, scorning our blood and her bridal troth, 

My brother her love had sought. 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 



431 



" That wretched night, at the midnight hour, 
While each pulse with madness beat, 

A loud shriek came from Inis' bower — 
I flew to the dear retreat. 

" I saw but my lady's bosom bare : 

I heard but her vengeful cry ; 
My sword was deep in a breast as fair, 

Ere spoke the upraised eye. 

" As bathed in his blood young Juan fell, 

My guilty senses fled ; 
But waking late in St. Leonard's cell, 

I raised an outlaw's head. 

" What heeded my heart, of privileged shade, 
When blood on my conscience lay — 

When the brother once dear, had my faith betrayed, 
And blotted out life's fair day? 

" The pardon won, by my kinsman sought, 

From Alphonso's kingly hand, 
No joyful change in a bosom wrought, 

More sad than the desart's sand. 

" For she that I loved — ah ! she whose charms 

Had been my brother's snare, 
Now languish'd sad in my wretched arms, 

With silent and fixed despair. 

" Her death-day came — remembrance dread ! 

In the midst of her beauty's prime ; 
And then, as her loaded spirit fled, 

She owned the damned crime. 

" 'T was she that woo'd, — 't was she that, spurn'd, 

To frantic vengeance grew ; 
Oh ! fatal truths, in vain were ye learned ! 

And like fiends, my soul pursue. 



432 



THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 

" For now remorse, and terror, and woe, 

Surround me with their spells, 
And never, alas ! must I hope to go 

Where my brother's spirit dwells." 

The Knight broke off — for the hermit's breast 
Heaved thick with convulsive start ; — 

He wept aloud — and he rushed to his guest, 
And snatched him to his heart. 

Don Carlos caught not the breathless cry — 

He saw not the hooded face ; — 
But his throbbing heart and flashing eye 

Were true to a known embrace. 

" Now blessed Saint John hath another true Knight, 

And thou a brother again ! 
O Carlos ! I swear, by yon heavenly light, 

To join thy patron's train. 

" While bewailing sad thine only fault, 

Thy prayers were breathed to me ; 
With world-sick eyes, but pitying thought, 

I have sorrowed and prayed for thee. 

" No mortal blow didst thou give my breast, 

Though deep to my soul it went ; 
And when life returned, from life unblest, 

I flew to lone banishment. 

" Now thou art restored with fondness true, 

To love, as true as thine own ; 
And the World's bright gates will open anew, 

For souls that again are one." 

days of Youth ! days of Joy ! 

Again do your hours return ? 
Yes — the penitent heart, and the Heaven-ward eye, 

Have quickened the death-cold Urn ! 



SUPPLEMENTARY NOTES 



Page 1. 

Atheling was not a surname, but a title, conferred by the Saxons on the 
heir to the crown ; in the same manner as that of Dauphin is given to the 
eldest sons of the Kings of France. 

Page 2. (Note). 
For " Bishop Gibson," read Camden. 

Page 4. (Note — Billmen). 

A Bill was a weapon much resembling a Halbert. On the one side it had 
a cutting blade, turned like the common bill, a spike at the top and the op- 
posite side. They were sometimes used in the navy ; but a large portion of 
the foot soldiers of the time were called Billmen, from using this weapon. It 
was not confined to the military ; but was used by sheriffs' officers attending 
executions, and by watchmen. The denomination of black and brown, arose 
from its colour: the one from a black varnish, with which this weapon was 
frequently covered; the other from its being brown with rust. — Grose. 

Page 9. 

It appears that, notwithstanding this signal defeat, Anlaf and his Danes 
were afterwards in possession of Northumberland, and part of the kingdom 
of Mercia. From this, they were at length dislodged by the valour of King 
Edmund ; when Anlaf, like his predecessor Gothrum, in the reign of Alfred, 
consented to receive baptism, and to become a feudatory of the English 
Monarch. These events are concisely related in the Saxon Chronicle, at the 
date of the year 942. A few words, at the conclusion, it will be seen, are 
written in Latin, but are in the Saxon character. 

"An. DCCCCXLII. — Her Eadmund cymng, Engla theoden, maga mund 
" bora, Myrce geode, dyre deed fruma, swador scadeth hwitan wylles gceat, & 
" Humbra ea, brada brym stream. Burgha fife, Ligora-cester, & Lindcylne, & 
" Snotingaham, suilce Stanford, eac Deoraby, Dene wceran cer, under north 
" mannum, nyde gebegdde, on hcetbenra hcefte clommumlange thrage, oththie 
" hie alysde eft, for his weord-scyre, wiggendra hleoafera Eadwerdes. Ead- 
" mund cyning onfeng Anlafe cyninge cet fulwighte ; & thy yclan gere ymb 
" teala micel foec, he on-feng Regenolde cyning cet biscopes-handa. Her Anlaf 
"cyning forth-ferde : & Ricardus uetus suscepit regnum & regnauit an LII. 

The following is adventured as a tolerably literal translation, with the 
aid of Bishop Gibson's Latin version, and in the absence of Mr. Ingram's. 
It will afford another instance of similarity between the parent Saxon and 
the early English: — 

" Here Edmund the King, England's lord (to his mates) the bearer-of-protec- 
" tion, Mercia attacked, of dire deeds the causer, where separates the White 
" Well's (river's) gate (track), and the Humber river, a broad banked stream. 
" Boroughs five, — Leicester, and Lincoln, Nottingham, also Stamford, eke 
" Derby, of the Danes were ere (before), under the North-men, subdued, by 
"the Heathens hard oppressed a long time, until them loosed, for his word's- 
" sake, the warlike heir of Edward. Edmund the King received Anlaf the 
" King at the font; and the ilk (same) year, after mickle long time, he 
" received Regenold the King at the Bishop's hand (anointed or consecrated). 
" Here Anlaf the King forth-fared (departed), and Richard the Elder received 
" the kingdom, and reigned fifty-two years." 



434 



Page 32. King Estmere (Note). 



In this place, Caernarvon has been written, by an oversight, for Conway: 
the hall of this castle is one hundred and thirty feet long. The next in size is 
probably that of Powis Castle ; and many other fine castle-halls are to be seen 
in those splendid edifices, the relics of which are the pride and ornament of 
modern Wales ; and in which she equals, at least, — if she does not exceed, — 
all other European nations. 

Page 79. Ver. 3. 

A tournament was a conflict with many knights, divided into parties, and 
engaged at the same time ; the just, or joust, was a separate trial of skill, 
when only one man was opposed to another. — Strutt. 

Page 267. Hengist and Mey (Note — Odin). 

Odin was styled in the Runic, Oal Fadr, or Vol Fadr,—i. e., the Father 
of Slaughter ; and in his elysium, Asgardia, which was conceived to be a 
terrestrial paradise on the banks of the Tanais, the Scythian mother- 
country, the palace which was destined for the abode of the most distin- 
guished warriors, was called Val-Halla,—i. e., the Hall of Slaughter. 

Page 275. The Grave of King Arthur. 

In the romance of Mort d 'Arthur, is a different account of the removal 
of King Arthur, and the interment of his body. As soon as the attendant, 
(who is here styled Bedwer or Bedevere, instead of the Boteler Lucan, who 
is represented to have been killed), had thrown the sword into the water, — 
" He led his lord unto the strand ; 
A rich ship, with masts and oar, 
Full of ladies there they fand (found) : 

" The ladies, that were fair and free, 

Courteously the King 'gan they fong (receive) ; 
And one, that brightest was of blee, 

Weeped sore, and handis wrung. 
* Brother,' she said, ' wo is me ; 

From leeching hast thou been too long ; 
I wot that greatly grieveth me ; 

For thy painis are full strong ! ' " 
These ladies, whether of Fairy or human race, having thus taken away his 
master, from whom he learnt, at parting, that he was going to the Isle of 
Avalon, in hopes of there meeting with a cure, Sir Bedevere wandered about 
the forest till day-break. Just before sun-rise, however, he was attracted, by 
a brilliant light, to a spot which he found to be the chapel of a hermitage. — 
This was the retreat of an unfortunate Archbishop of Canterbury, who had 
been persecuted by the villanous Mordred, and who was at that time on his 
knees before a tomb of grey marble; on which was an inscription in golden 
characters, bearing the name of Kiug Arthur: and on the tomb was an 
empty bier, surrounded by a hundred wax torches. This, the prelate 
informed him, had been brought in about midnight by a company of ladies, 
who instantaneously erected the tomb, and interred the body with their own 
hands, leaving him an offering of immense value, and directing him to pray 
incessantly for the soul of the deceased. 

Sir Bedwer of course, as a faithful and attached servant, devoted the rest 
of his days to an attendance on the tomb of his loved master ; and entered 
into the same monastic order as the Archbishop. In process of time they 
were joined by the late repentant Sir Launcelot, and others ; and the body 
of Queen Guenever was interred by the side of her husband, in the Chapel 
of the Hermitage ; which receiving much increase of inhabitants and of 
honour, grew up (according to the Romance) into the powerful and noble 
Abbey of Glastonbury. 

Ellis. 



L'ENVOY. 



And now, by the way of " Pithy and Profitable Morale," the 
Editour craveth licence to intreat of the gentle and courteous Reader, 
that having delighted himself hugely with the excellences of this 
small Tome, he will " feel an apt remission in himself" towards its 
abounding unworthinesses. His humble oration is, however, two- 
fold : he redes him also greedily to drink into his mind all the good 
that he may discover therein, and to eschew the evil (for the lurking 
caitiff may have intruded himself into this little plaisance and flower- 
garden of Poesie), and that he will arise up from the prelection 
thereof, at the least, not the worse man, woman, or child, as the 
case 'chance may happen. Herein he seeing and believing the 
knowledge and doings of the time present to happily out-go the times 
past, will, if he be of worth, rejoice therefore. Again, in that 
he beholdeth, through the long and dim avenue of the years of old, 
many of those bright and lustrous deeds, which (lauded be the 
All-Good!) do cheerily shine out, in every age and realm — he 
will bid them welcome as " new friends with old faces." And 
may-be, they may attire themselves, to his mind's eye, in the same 
garb as they did to that silver-voiced Swan, that whilom floated on 
the smooth streams of Avon : — 

" How far that little candle throws his beams, 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world ! " 

Should the Editour be aware, by sundry testimonies and tokens, 
that he hath become, as the facete old Latin Poet, Horatius Flaccus, 
phraseth it, " Compos voti," — certes, it is not for the Reader to 



436 l'envoy. 

doubt but that he shall, in no long time, receive from him (through 
the medium of the Bibliopolist) certain other missives and printed 
books. When " Sumer is icomen in" — 

When July eve, with balmy breath, 
Waves the blue-bells upon the heath — 

he will, albeit he have no " wood notes wild " of his own, hearken 
diligently to the " most approved good music" of living warblers ; 
and note it down, in prick-song, for the Reader's delectation. 
Moreover he will, oft-times, frequent the resorts of those senior and 
veracious minstrels, who, 

" Much of old romantic lore, 

On the high theme do keep in store ;" 

and, with much care and honest pains, he will strive (Deo per- 
mittente') to put together such a " Paradise of Dainty Devices" 
(which the modern Gauls would clepe a " melange") as to instill 
into the mind of the Reader a right copious measure of comfort 
and satisfaction, even more than he may have deduced from this his 
premier essay. And now having, through the fore-seeing of his 
good-liking, wrought himself to a wondrous esteem for the humane 
and well-nurtured Reader, he,, without more-a-do, very heartily 
biddeth him Farewell. 



615 



LONDON : 

S. Manning & Co., London House Yard, St. Paul's. 






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